


From 'A' to Where You'd Be

by Somedeepmystery



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Love, Mystery, a search for something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-08
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-12 05:48:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12952665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somedeepmystery/pseuds/Somedeepmystery
Summary: Sighing, she lifts the pendant and dangles it from the delicate chain so that the stone can play in the changing light. Pink and striated with bands of soft white, it’s nothing special. It’s not precious; isn’t worth any real money money. It contains no trackers, no bugs, no link for him to keep track of her and certainly no magical power to bring him back. It’s just a stone.It was just a stone. Nothing more.





	1. Nothing More

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _Set Fire to the Third Bar_ by Snow Patrol  
>  Special thanks to diadema for being my beta, confidant, idea bounce wall and general "whipper into shaper" and to gal on tumblr who gave me the prompt that started this! 
> 
> I hope to have this all to you for Christmas, I just hope the little details will cooperate.

 

 

**_March, 1966... London_ **

 

Sunlight shifts across her pale bedroom walls as a breeze stirs the curtains at her window. Gaby turns her head, dark hair rustling across her pillow, to stare vacantly out at the open blue sky.

A crow lands on the balcony, his narrow, black talons gripping the wrought iron railing, shuffling about until he finds just the spot he wants. He tilts his head and his shiny, black eyes dart about, looking for anything of interest — a bit of food perhaps, or something sparkly. She watches him, wondering if he might be bold enough to come inside. Maybe he would land on her bed. Maybe he would peck at her. Maybe she would feel it.

Had it really only been two months since they had gone on their date? Dinner, a movie, an impromptu slow dance to a band in the park while bundled up against the cold…their first _real_ date. Like any ordinary couple. Real people, who could belong to each other somehow, even though they didn’t belong to themselves.

She lays a hand on her chest, feeling for the chain at her throat. She remembers him tracing the line of silver with his index finger as they had waited outside the movie theater, _Art of Love_ on the marquee overhead. He’d smiled when he saw it there.

_“It is good to see you wearing it.”_

_“I don’t get much opportunity.”_

Sighing, she lifts the pendant and dangles it from the delicate chain so that the stone can play in the changing light. Pink and striated with bands of soft white, it’s nothing special. It’s not precious; isn’t worth any real money money. It contains no trackers, no bugs, no link for him to keep track of her and certainly no magical power to bring him back. It’s just a stone.

She lets it fall through her fingers, still toying with it on her chest as she returns her gaze to the open window. It feels cool as it slides over her collarbone into the hollow of her throat. The stone is oddly always cool, like Illya’s hands, only warming after long, consistent contact with her skin. It had been presented as she prepared for a job. A deep cover mission, no choice but to go in alone, no way of making contact, no easy exit strategy. She had asked him about the necklace then, as she’d admired it in the mirror. It was such a delicate thing, not the usual accessory he would choose for her covers. It was more like something she would wear for herself.

_“Is this something specific for this cover?”_

_“No, this necklace is for Gaby… from me.”_

_“Illya, I can’t take any trackers with me. He’ll find them.”_

_He shook his head. “No trackers. It is a gift. To know I am thinking of you and I will be there when you need me. I will always be where you can find me.”_

Ah, what impossible words... How was she supposed to find him now?

 

They had called him back to Moscow again, only this time they’d picked him up in their own plane. Six weeks ago now. It was almost as if they had known about their date, as if they’d suspected something here might hold him even tighter than the shame they had bound him in. She hadn’t liked the way his eyes had veered to the men waiting for him, or the distance he’d kept between them as they’d said good-bye.

The plane had gone down somewhere over Belarus. The pilot had survived. Some malfunction in one of the engines. No other survivors.

She closes her eyes against the sting.

There’s a knock at her door and she rolls her head in that direction, pulls herself from the bed to answer it.

Solo is waiting behind the familiar rap of knuckles, the rhythm of it unique to him. He has been making a point to stop by at least every other day. She has a feeling it’s for himself as much as it is for her.

He looks her over, takes in her messy hair and rumpled pajamas.  “How are you doing?”

“I could ask you the same.”

“Yes, but… Well,” he glances at the floor before looking back at her. “We both know it’s different. And, if you were to ask, my answer would be, ‘not great.’”

She feels a weak smile pull at her lips.

“No, not great.” She borrows his word and accent. “But... I know where the edge is, Solo. I’m not going to fall apart from this.” She has experienced grief before. Loss. They are her oldest friends. She knows how to spend time with them and not lose herself.

“That’s good to hear. Now,” he holds up a bag and at the sight of it she becomes aware of the scent of warm pastries and the fact she hasn’t eaten yet today. “How about breakfast?” It’s half past noon but that doesn’t stop them.

They have coffee and he catches her up on the news from work. They’ve both been given time off, but he still goes into the office. _Couldn’t help himself,_ he said. _What else was there to do?_ When he leaves, she sits back on her sofa and stares at the ceiling.

What else indeed?

She still isn’t ready to face Illya’s desk, whether it is full of his things or emptied of them. She inhales at the thought and the stretch of her chest brings a sharp, almost physical pain. She presses the heel of her hand to her sternum, curling in on herself as the tears come. She gives in to them this time, lets them have their way and be done for awhile.

 

All the bodies had been accounted for, the remains charred beyond recognition, but the Soviets had still come asking questions. The only way to identify Illya’s body had been the watch around his wrist - solid enough proof for anyone who knew him well - and yet their perverse minds were still suspicious. With such strong ties to the vile west, surely, if anyone had the means, resources and support to defect, it was Illya Kuryakin.

U.N.C.L.E. had cooperated — within reason. They had allowed them to check every gift Illya had ever given any of them, including her necklace, which she’d watched with hawk-like eyes until it was refastened about her neck. (The fake engagement ring had been lost in the Pacific ocean over a year ago, and, for the first time, she had been glad of it, certain they would have confiscated that bit of sentiment. She doesn’t think she would have handled that without causing an incident.)

Her agency had even allowed Solo and herself to be questioned, as long as Waverly was present.

At one point, after hours of questioning, her interrogator had grown so frustrated that she would not be lead down the path he wanted, he had slapped her. Before she could even rise to her feet to show him she wasn’t one to take such abuse, the man had learned that Alexander Waverly is far more than a figurehead, more than just an old man with a dry wit and charming smile.

That had been the end of the cooperation.

The KGB had tried to bug her apartment but she knew all of their tricks. She had inside knowledge after all, not to mention a few tricks of her own. They are still following her, however. She hardly minds: it’s a welcome distraction. She enjoys letting the little man on her tail know that she knows where he is. No matter the time of day, or how strategically he follows, she’ll catch his gaze, and give him a little wave, her smile wide and sharp. She has enjoyed walking in the worst of the late winter weather, bundling up to the gills to walk in the sleet and snow. Then, just when she sees he has prepared for her maneuver, she’ll spend the entire day in a warm, bustling market to make him sweat. It had been a helpful diversion. She knows he’s out there even now, across the street waiting for her to emerge.

Too bad it’s such a pretty day.

She lifts the necklace again, twirling it about in front of her. It’s no help at all. A useless connection with something forever lost. Why is she always holding onto pieces of things she can’t have? Even in Berlin she had done it, her old toe shoes, her father’s picture… Is it to remind herself never to dream of the future? Or is it because some small part of her is still trying, even after all the falls, to _hope_?

With shaking fingers, she reaches for the clasp and snatches the necklace from her throat, holding it in her palm for a moment before letting it spill out onto her coffee table, the chain glinting in the sunlight from her living room windows.

“It’s _nothing_ ,” she says aloud to the empty room. “Useless. Just a stone.”

_It was just a stone..._

Illya’s voice echoes through her mind and she holds her breath, snapping her eyes closed as she tries to grasp on to it.

_It was just a stone..._

A hum of baritone so distinctly his, it's like music. What was that? When had he said it?

_It was just a stone. Nothing more._

That stupid story he had told her.

She exhales and sinks back into the sofa, letting her hands fall to her lap as she indulges in the frivolous memory.

 

 

**_January 1965... Illya’s London Flat_ **

 

Gaby lay next to Illya in his lumpy, far too narrow bed. They had made love not long ago and his naked body felt perfect lined up with hers. Shimmying closer to him, she sighed as she wrapped an arm around his torso. She laid her head on his chest so she could listen to his heartbeat and the rumble of his voice as he told he spoke. He had taken to telling her random little tales, using his voice to sooth her on those nights she had difficulty falling asleep, but tonight he had been the one to ask if she would like to hear a story and she’d agreed. His voice was relaxing her, lulling her into that place just before sleep, but something about the story held her there, keeping her from going under.

He told the tale of an old man who would sit with his grandson on his knee and tell him a tale of treasure and adventure. The treasure was his dearest possession, which he had buried deep in the Forest of Antonma. His grandson had grown up hearing the story, listening to how prized this treasure was, how deeply his grandfather longed for it, and how, someday, he would go back and retrieve it and it would be his again. He’d told the story  each time they were together, visit after visit, year after year, and the child’s mind had raced, imagining all number of valuable things: diamonds and rubies, silver and gold.

“Each time the grandfather told the story,” Illya intoned, his voice soothing. “It had been more and more fantastic, but four details were always consistent. It was always Antonma, there was always the City of Flowers. There was always the large, gnarled tree that reached up to the sky with its ancient branches, and the number of degrees north the grandfather had walked before burying his treasure always remained the same.

“When his grandfather died, the boy, a man now, could no longer stand the thought of not seeing this treasure. He sold everything he owned and headed out in search of it. He undertook the long and arduous journey to the distant land of Antoma. Traveled the road to the City of Flowers, keeping himself hidden from highwaymen and thieves, those who might seek to take the treasure from him. Months and months he searched until, one day, he found the tree. Its branches twisted and knotted, reaching up into the sky like an old pagan worshiping the sun. From its northern side he walked, carrying his map and his compass until finally he emerged into the wide clearing his grandfather had described to him. He dug and dug, hole after hole Then, after days of sweat and searching, the blade of his shovel met the thump of hollow wood. His energy renewed, he dug up the chest, and, using the shovel to break the lock, he opened it.”

He paused. She waited.

Until the pause went on for too long. She pushed up on his chest and looked down at him sharply. “Well?”

He frowned at her. “What?”

“What was inside the chest?”

“You want to know?”

She punched his shoulder, earning a grunt. “Of course I want to know! Why would you tell me this story, and not tell me the ending?”

His smile was melancholy, though he was clearly enjoying teasing her. “It isn’t a very good ending.”

“Illya…”

He reached up and cupped her cheek. His thumb brushed over her skin and she felt the gentle scratch of the callouses there. “It was a stone.”

“A stone? A precious stone, like a ruby or…” he shook his head.

“It was just a stone, nothing more.”

She frowned. “You’re teasing me.”

“No,” he chuckled, “I am not.”

“Then what is the purpose of it! Is there supposed to be some twisted Russian moral here?”

“Are you insulting my morals?”

“Illya!”

He brought his other hand up, holding her head and looking into her eyes. “The moral is this: what is precious to one person, may not be precious to another, and you should think long and hard about giving up your own life for someone else’s worthless dream.”

 

 

**_Gaby’s Flat... 1966_ **

 

Gaby sits up, eyes wide, her heart pounding as the memory takes hold.

No. It can’t. It didn’t… He had told her that story _one time_ . He’d given it no other significance than telling it to her in the first place. She shakes her head. Perhaps she had been wrong when she told Solo she knew where the edge was. She has clearly gone over it with this idea. _Still..._ she leans forward and lifts the necklace again, watches it spin.

_Just a stone, nothing more._

_I will always be where you can find me._

Even though it seems horrifically far-fetched, Gaby can’t stop herself from dwelling on Illya’s story. She goes about her errands, works from home doing paperwork for Waverly, lunches with Solo, and leads her KGB tail on unmerry chases through London. But all the while her mind is chanting: _Antonma, City of Flowers, pagan tree, north._

 

Eventually, she is rid of her tail.

He’s a determined one, she has to admit. Still, she’s of no mind to warn him about what she knows is coming. She walks up to him on the train platform and he watches her, no longer surprised she knows where he is. “Lovely weather we’re having today, isn’t it?” she says, and her smile has bite.

He smirks back and takes a long drag from his cigarette before opening his jacket. “Wool. It keeps you warm but not too warm.”

She gives him a little nod of approval.

He looks her over, and gives a little nod of his own. “Kuryakin taught you well, I’ll give him that.”

Gaby scoffs. “Please, I’ve been dodging your kind since long before I met him.” The man shrugs. “Perhaps I taught him something.”

His shoulders drop at that statement and he looks at her keenly.

She doesn’t let him dwell on the idea long, realizing there’s an implication there she hadn’t intended. “I hope you haven’t made yourself too at home here, Alexi,” she says and that surprises him. Yes, she knows his name.

He recovers quickly. “I have no desire to be ‘at home’ in this godforsaken country.”

“Alright, well, I’m off to work now,” she says, raising her voice as the train pulls in. “I’ll be in that car right there.” She points and then gives him a little wave as she walks away.

“Маленькая сука,” he calls after her.

“Пожалуйста,” she calls back. “We both know I’m a _big_ bitch.”

Later that day, Scotland Yard has a boon on catching Soviet agents in the city and her tail isn’t seen again. _Good riddance_.

 

Eventually, she and Solo pay their final visit to Illya’s flat.

Waverly has been holding the place, waiting for them to have their go at it before the agency takes it back.  There’s not much left inside but what little that remains is a mess. Most of his sparse furniture has been broken apart and his papers are strewn across the hardwood floor. There is an empty book cover at her feet, the pages shredded and littered about like fallen leaves.

She thinks of all the times she had teased him for living so simply, mocking his socialistic need to make do with only what was necessary. Now she understands.  The things you keep, tiny treasures and well-read books... they give you away.

She crouches down, reaching for a lone chess piece, her fingers wrapping around the little, hand-carved knight, and looks up in time to see Solo yank something off the light fixture. He’s not fast enough and she sees the pale, pink bra she’d forgotten here several months ago. She knows Illya didn’t hang it there. Snatching it from Solo’s fingers, an angry flush heats her cheeks, and she shoves it into her coat pocket before lifting her chin and setting her mouth in a hard line. They don’t talk about it.

She turns over every paper in the place, tracing over the lines written in his small, precise hand, memorizing random sketches the KGB discarded like so much trash. She explores each cabinet, the upturned desk drawers, the broken shelves, unsure if she’s searching for something that might trouble U.N.C.L.E., evidence that her little mantra isn’t just her imagination, or something,   _anything,_ that remains of the man she loves. Little is left of him in the place, but she realizes now, that was was his intention. There is only a lingering of his scent, a forgotten soft cap, and a bottle of his shampoo. Gaby takes the latter two with her when she leaves and Solo doesn’t mock her for it.

“I’ll tell Waverly they can take back the flat now,” he says as she closes and locks the door. At her absent nod he adds, “but, later. Right now I say we go get a drink.”

Gaby loops her arm in his and leans her head onto his shoulder. “Yes, please.”

 

Eventually, she returns to the office.

Whether it is because of Solo’s increasing looks of concern or because she missed it, she can’t say. It’s almost June now and four months seems at once an eternity and no time at all.

Her gaze is drawn to Illya’s desk in the corner the moment she walks in. It has only been partially cleared, as if her remaining partner somehow knew that either untouched or cleared off would have broken her. She doesn’t know if the KGB had been allowed access to this space, and she can’t tell from looking. Instead, Illya’s few remaining personal things are set out, as he might have had them. She can tell they have been moved, touched by others since him, and though she still feels a punch to the gut at the sight — at the knowledge that he will never again sit in that chair, diligently doing paperwork while grumbling about Solo neglecting his, or pulling the chess set to the center to fuss with when he needed to clear his mind, — it is a manageable pain. She makes her way forward and runs her fingers over the small stack of books, the little chess pieces, and the tops of his fountain pens, listening to them clatter against each other in their cup. They are probably sorely in need of a cleaning.

She pauses when she sees the compass, the patina of the brass, the divot in the cover she had never got around to asking him about. Without thinking, she picks it up, turning it over in her hand and looks up questioningly as Solo moves to stand beside her.

“I swiped it off one of the Soviets on their way out,” he says. “Little thief tried to pocket it for himself. I’m sure he’ll have fun trying to explain its absence.”

“Thank you,” she says, holding it tightly.  

He let out a breath. “Well, the bastards already have his father’s watch.”

 

 

**_April 1964..._ **

 

“Turn the bezel,” Illya’s voice rumbled near her ear as he helped her steady the compass. He was tall and looming at her back. Though, perhaps looming wasn’t the right word exactly. He was just so very... _there._

“Yes,” he continued. “Now keep the needle in his little house.”

Gaby rolled her eyes. “Little house?”

“It is to help you remember.”

“Is that how the Spetsnaz taught you to remember?”

“Spetsnaz did not teach me,” he said softly, hesitating a moment. “My father did.”

_Oh._

He placed his hand under hers again, lifting it and the compass back into position. His long fingers, always cool, almost covered hers completely. “This compass was his.” He said it so lightly, as if the information was simple trivia. She knew it was anything but.

“Okay,” she cleared her throat and set her shoulders, trying to take this lesson in land navigation more seriously. It really was a life or death skill. “So now I shoot the azimuth.” She did as he’d shown her before, peering down the sight line as she aimed it at her chosen terrain feature. She took note of the degree angle. “And then I draw a line along the path of travel until they intersect…” she held out her map. “And where they cross is where I am.”

“Right, almost.”

“Almost?”

“Now we must convert the magnetic position to the grid.”

“More math?”

“More math.”

 

 

**_August 1966..._ **

 

She starts taking missions again. It starts out a little rough, the flutter in her stomach reminding her of those last nights in Rome, but by the end she’s back in the groove. _Like riding a bike_ , she thinks, _on a tightrope. Over lava.._.

She and Solo are a two-person team these days, a real dynamic duo, though, occasionally, they will take on a partner whose expertise they might be lacking. Solo seems rather fond of the most recent one, Liz Bennett. Gaby isn’t sure how she feels about that, Napoleon seeming a little more Wickham than Darcy, but Liz is a smart one. She’s from South Korea and sharp as a razor blade. Possibly a good match for him. She watches the two of them banter with Rashid Hatem, a recent recruit, near the office water cooler and feels something shift inside her chest. _He will be alright..._

It is with this thought in mind that she takes to lying in bed at night repeating the words aloud.

_Antonma, City of Flowers, pagan tree, north._

She spends her free time in libraries, begging off more than a few social events until Solo seems suspicious, then it’s clubs and drinks for a handful of weekends. More than once, she considers bringing him, or even Waverly, in on her quest and yet she resists. Instead she keeps her taboo secret to herself, holding it close like a fragile bubble that the smallest exposure might burst. A bit of contraband forbidden in her real life. It’s too much hope, she _knows this_ , and that voice inside her cautions against it. _Never get your hopes so high_ , it tells her, _that you can’t survive the fall._

Because it has to be a fairytale, doesn’t it? A “City of Flowers” was one thing, something possible. A huge tree with gnarled branches, real enough. But Antonma is not a real place. It’s something from a fantasy world, though she can’t pin down which one. The original story seems entirely made up by Illya himself. She’s checked Russian tales, German tales and tales from any region she felt could have even the most tenuous connection. There’s nothing to find.

 

**_January 1 1967... 3 am._ **

 

Gaby stumbles into her small flat, toes off her heels and slumps into a kitchen chair. She probably shouldn’t’ve had that last vodka, but it was all she could do to stay at the party until the clocked turned twelve, to listen to all the people cheering. All she could do to see them kiss and embrace, when all she could do was think about was how last year, Illya’s lips had been on hers.

He’d been so alive. Tall and warm in her arms, wearing a tuxedo as he shook his head at all the excess around them. They had been on a mission but they’d been enjoying the closeness their cover required, kisses real beneath the facade. She’d looked up at his beautiful face and  for the first time, allowed herself to think, _he’s mine, I’m going to keep him_.

What a fool she had been! To make plans, to think of the future. Even then she’d known there could be no real future with Illya! He had belonged to the KGB and now he belongs to the dead. He had never, not for one, single moment, belonged to _her._ Why is she still being foolish? Holding on to this ridiculous riddle? Running her mind over it day and night, like she runs her fingers over the cool stone at her neck as if trying to keep it warm.

Pushing off the kitchen table, she weaves her way to the drawer where she keeps the matches, then settles back down with the box and a single sheet of paper. She’ll write it all down then burn the lot. It’ll be symbolic. Let go of the past, move forward, don’t make any more fucking plans.

_Antonma_ , she writes, a sharp, hasty scrawl then stops. The word looks different on paper than it had in her mind and she tilts her head. The sight of it sparks an odd idea. Instead of writing the next thing on the list she writes, _Tonanam,_ then _Ontanam..._

There are only so many ways to put these letters together and even fewer that make any sense. In the end, she finds herself staring at the name of a place. A very _real_ place.

A place she can pin on a map.

When she realizes it, she drops the pen. Her hand is shaking as she opens the box of matches, striking one and burning the paper to ash. She lights a cigarette to cover the smell.

  



	2. Tilting at Windmills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is she following clues or is she just indulging in a hopeful delusion?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday (at least here in the PST zone) Happy Holidays for those who celebrate. Hope you enjoy Part Two.

 

  
  


**_Late August  1968_ **

 

Flower City, Montana. USA. 

It’s an epic misnomer. “The City of Flowers” is little more than a lane off the highway. A bar, a gas station and a rundown motel. She takes a  moment to peruse the area anonymously through the visor of her helmet before turning her motorcycle to the right and taking a sharp turn into the motel’s dirt parking lot. It doesn’t have a real name, just the word MOTEL in neon across the front windows. She steps inside and gets a room, saddlebags flung wearily over her shoulder. 

Once behind closed doors, she sits on the lumpy bed with the garish, floral bedspread and groans at the ache in her legs. She strips off her leather jacket, tossing it toward the chair in the corner and leans forward, pressing her hands into her thighs as she lets out a long breath. She’s gotten this far.

The decision to follow this trail had been decided the moment she’d thought there might be one, though she hadn’t wanted to admit it at the time. She hadn’t needed to talk herself into it, she’d only had to make herself wait. Wait, until she had more information. Wait, until she’d gathered the right resources. Wait, until she could get away clean.

_ Wait.  _

Two years, five months and sixteen days since Illya’s plane had gone down in Belarus. A year of thinking and doubting. Another year of planning, saving, and engineering everything she had the means for. Now here she is, on an uncertain path with an even less certain destination. 

The idea that she might still be chasing a fantasy crosses her mind, and not for the first time either.  She leans forward further, onto her elbows, and fingers the pendant around her neck. 

Antonma was a real place… or so it seemed. And that place had a city of flowers… or so it seemed. But, even if she finds the tree here, could she be sure? Couldn’t it all still be an unlikely coincidence? Her stomach rumbles and she decides to save the overthinking for later.

The only option for food is the bar or the gas station, so when her stomach complains again she stands to her feet and looks in the mirror. Her short-cropped hair is mussed from the helmet, and she uses her fingers to try and comb it into submission, pushing it into a boyish part. She runs a finger under the compression bandage beneath her shirt, hating the building itch. But every diversion she can put between herself and whoever might eventually look for her, the better, so the bandage will stay and “Noah Mueller” will go eat a meal. 

 

 

**_March 1968... London_ **

 

“I need to disappear for a while,” she said to Solo late one night as they had drinks together in a crowded club. The music was loud, the laughter louder. All around them people were having conversations in a near shout while others danced in every centimeter of free space. A haze of smoke hung in the air around them, not all of it from tobacco. Near the stage, a group of people had started up a round of that orange game that was all the rage lately. Solo had been casting eyes that way with increasing interest as the group of people chased a rolling orange over each other’s bodies, trying to trap it beneath their chin, not let it fall. She had tapped his arm to keep him with her.

“What do you mean, ‘disappear?’”

“You  _ know  _ what I mean. Non-existent. Untraceable.”

“That’s a tall order, Gabs. For how long?”

She shrugged as if it hardly mattered. “Three months.”

He frowned, looking her over with the eyes of a friend who knew her tells and was watching for them. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on or should I just sit here and stare at you suspiciously all night?”

“What?” she asked, nonchalant as she turnes to rest her elbows on the bar, drink dangling from her fingers. The scrawny little stirring straws swished back and forth from the movement. “You know how hard it is to take a vacation around here.”

“You need three months for a vacation?”

She lifted a shoulder again and pretended to scan the room. 

“Explain,” he insisted when she didn’t volunteer anything else. 

“I don’t see what the big deal is.” A little laugh.

“Alright, what if we go somewhere together?”

She hesitated mid-pull on her drink. She recovered quickly but not before his keen conman’s eyes had spotted it. He put a hand on her shoulder and she took a long drink, ignoring his intent gaze. 

“Tell me what it is. Are you in some kind of danger or...”

She shook her head. “Nothing like that.”

It wasn’t that Solo had forgotten Illya. She knew that by the small chessboard he kept on the corner of his desk, and the pocket watch, Illya’s last gift to him, which went with him everywhere unless a mission dictated otherwise. No, it wasn’t that he had forgotten, it wasn’t even that he was over it, it was just that Illya’s absence didn’t leave the same sized hole in Solo as it did in her. 

He also believed his friend to be dead, while she, like an idiot, had allowed herself to cling to a small thread of hope. Once again, she reminded herself not to let that pervasive emotion grow too big. She finally looked up and made eye contact with the man beside her, watched his face change. He drew back ever so slightly, as if to get a better look at her. 

“Gaby...” Pity. She hated it, wanted it, could  _ use it _ to her advantage right now. He sighed and ducked his head before shooting back the rest of his scotch. “It’s been two years,” he said, voice lowered to a tone meant to soothe but instead had her bristling.

Her small laugh was pure disdain. “Two  _ whole _ years,” she said, words sharp. “Such a very  _ long _ time.”  _ Two years, three weeks, four days, twelve hours.  _ It might as well be centuries... and no time at all.

Solo sighed, and his thumb began to make small circles where it rested on her shoulder. “I miss him too, you know.”

“I know,” she replied and there was thickness to it, emotion trying to creep in around the edges of her voice. She took a slow drink until she had it under control. “It’s not the same.” 

“All the more reason it might not be a good idea to go off by yourself. Let me come with you. I know a lot of great places to get lost.”

There was a small smile playing at his lips but it fell off when she looked up at him again. “Napoleon.” She held his gaze for several moments. What could she say? Yes, come with me? Illya might not be dead, let’s go find him? No! She couldn’t do that. She couldn’t curse him with this ridiculous, possibly baseless hope any more than she could expose herself to his rationale that might destroy it. Besides, if they disappeared together it was sure to raise a series of red flags, not to mention the added complication of the CIA and the leash they still had on him. “I need to do this alone,” she said softly. “Just... get all the eyes off me for a little while.”

He furrowed his brow. “I don’t like it,” he said and she knew she’d won. He’d help her,  just like she’d help him.

She finished her drink. “Thank you.”

 

 

**_September 1968... Flower City_ **

 

There are a few customers in the open dining room of the country bar but no one seems to take note of her. The place glows with the warm gold of peeled Montana pine, the log walls clean and varnished.  She grabs a seat at the end of a long, polished counter, crossing her arms and leaning on it as if her being there is the most natural thing in the world. She orders a hamburger and a vodka on the rocks, and then tries not to let her mind spin out of control as she waits. Her worriment is pierced by raised voices from one of the tables in the corner. A raucous burst of laughter from small group of old men, drinking tall pints of beer and arguing about the existence of time. It brings a small smile to her lips. A distraction from her thoughts if not peace for them. By the time her meal comes her nerves have settled a bit and she eats well. Though it’s far too big for her to finish, the burger is delicious and she takes the rest to her room for the next day.

Drained from hours on the bike, she pulls off her clothing, shedding the compression bandage like an unwanted skin. She takes a moment to massage some feeling back into her poor abused breasts. 

The bed isn’t pretty to look at and it’s lumpy as hell but the bedding is fresh and clean. When she pulls back the ugly duvet, the sheets are cool and soft. The smell of fresh laundry surrounds her as she climbs naked between them and curls into herself, tucking her hands beneath her cheek. But sleep doesn’t come.

Gaby had never dreamed she’d end up a spy, she had simply taken an opportunity —  to save herself, to see her father again. Saving the world had hardly been a secondary thought, not until she was actually doing it. 

Being a spy is inherently a lonely life. It isn’t just a job, a pair of coveralls you take off at the end of the day, it’s everything. No matter how much you care for someone, you can never belong to them. You belong to the job, to the world at large, to the bigger picture.  

And yet she had found somewhere to at least  _ rest _ . With her partners. As unlikely a trio as they had been, their partnership had blossomed into something steady and strong, something deeply rooted in trust and respect. A safe haven. Yes, they had pushed and prodded and provoked each other every day, but they had also protected, defended and soothed. More than once, in their years of working together, each of them had broken in one way or another — mental, physical, or emotional — and the other two had stood guard, like centurions at the gates of Rome, until they had pulled themselves together again. 

They had become the family she had never wanted. She hadn’t intended to become attached to them, to rely on them, yet here she is. 

She sighs and flops onto her back, arm flung across the second pillow. 

Back in London, she has a job she loves, most of the time, (more often than she hates it anyway.) She has Solo. He’s her friend, her confidant. Her emotions may not always be safe with him —  he loves to tease and is the champion of emotional blackmail — but her secrets, her person, are. She has coworkers and a neighbor across the hall with a cute little dog and a friendly smile. So, life would go on. There would be partners to share her work, partners to share her time and, eventually, (though the thought of it now makes her numb) partners to share her bed. She can continue down the same path she’s been on, going on mission after mission. Keep saving the world. 

Belonging to U.N.C.L.E., belonging to the greater good. 

Or… the wavering path. The path she still isn’t fully convinced is real.

The secondary message of Illya’s tale is not lost on her either: 

_ You should think long and hard before giving up your life for someone else’s worthless dream.  _

_ It was a stone. Nothing more. _

Not only will she have to give up her current life for the one his clues are offering, he’s certain he isn’t worth it. He doesn’t want her to choose him and regret it. He’s a fool, but she’s trying to take his feelings on the matter very seriously. It’s why she’s left herself a backup plan. If she’s back within the month, no one will really ask where she’s been and his secret will still be safe.

Because, even now she isn’t completely certain of her choice. It’s not that she is unsure of Illya or of her feelings or of sharing her life with him. No, it’s the life itself she’s unsure of, and, again, she hates the choice. To leave everything behind to live in hiding? It’s a tall order. Is that a life she wants to live?

When has she ever had the luxury of such a decision? She laughs at the thought. She hadn’t chosen to be a foster child, hadn’t chosen to leave ballet behind. She hadn’t even chosen to become a mechanic, though in the end, she had found it satisfying. She _ had _ chosen to become a spy. To see her father, to escape that wall... A choice for certain, but a narrow one. Is this one just as narrow? 

Illya Kuryakin or the whole wide world?

 

 

**_Late June 1964 - Geneva_ **

 

“That’s it! That’s the last time I’m playing chess with him,” Solo insisted from across the room. 

“You always say that,” Gaby called from behind the pages of her magazine. 

“He’s cheating somehow.” Solo’s use of third person was particularly mocking, considering Illya was sitting opposite him. Gaby paused in her reading, a caution light blinking on inside her head. 

“It is all strategy,” Illya responded, resisting the bait and sounding smug. As usual, that tone in his voice both irked and aroused her all at once. 

“You know, Peril, I’m not surprised the Soviets managed to fit a computer in that giant head of yours.”

There was a loud thump and the rattle of chess pieces. It was enough to get her to lower her reading and check on them. Illya had recovered quickly though and when she looked over, he was resetting the chess pieces. She watched him take a deep breath. 

“You need to learn to anticipate your opponent's moves and plan yours accordingly.”

Solo sighed. “Sounds like a lot of work for a game.”

“Chess is not a game,” was Illya’s sharp response. 

“I’m pretty sure in real life I can predict all your moves, Peril.”

“Good, then you already know that I told your waitress friend that you changed your mind about tonight. She is not coming.”

Solo tilted his head to the side. “I’m sorry… when did you do this? No,  _ why _ did you do this?”

Gaby suppressed a smile. She hadn’t been looking forward to another night of sharing this flat with Solo and his latest companion in a room just down the hall.

“You should know,” Illya answered, crossing his arms over his chest. “I thought you could anticipate all my moves?”

“If you wanted to be alone with me, Peril, you could have just asked.” 

Illya’s eyes narrowed at him, jaw flexing. 

Solo turned in his chair. “Gaby, darling, you’ll give us a few moments alone, yes?” 

“I don’t think so,” she said lightly, as if barely paying attention to their conversation. “If that sort of thing is going on, I must insist on watching.”

Solo’s grin widened as Illya turned a scandalized look in her direction. “You didn’t anticipate that one, did you?”

Illya glared back down at the chessboard. 

“Well, I’ve had about as much of you two as I can take for one day.” Napoleon stood and pulled his suit jacket back on. “I’ll go find some other company for tonight. Company with their  _ own flat _ . I don’t want to see either of you until tomorrow afternoon.”

“Goodnight,  _ Liebling_,” Gaby offered with a treacle-like sweetness and a little wave of her fingers. Solo gave her an exasperated look, then came over to kiss the top of her head as she returned to her magazine. 

“Don’t play chess with him. And don’t fight. I’d prefer it if, just once, we don’t have to explain why the place is torn apart when we leave.”

“No promises,” she sang and he rolled his eyes. 

“As for you,  _ comrade_,” he said to Illya. “All in good time.” Illya snorted in response and she imagined he was sitting there with his arms crossed as the two men stared each other down. 

After a moment the door opened and she listened to the rustle of fabric as Solo left, closing the door behind him. She waited, her heart speeding up ever so slightly in anticipation, the words on the page before her no longer registering as her senses heightened in his absence. Then, the sound of Illya’s footsteps moving across the carpet, the dip of the sofa as he sat beside her, his cool hand on her knee, sliding up her thigh, thumb stroking small circles on her bare skin. 

“Is this going to be part of our evening?” he asked from the other side of the glossy pages in front of her. “It is very nice car on the front here, but...” his voice deepened, lilting into a gently chastising tone, “I do not want to make love to it.”

The laugh that bubbled from her throat caught her off guard. Her head fell back against the sofa, turning to him as he pulled the magazine from her fingers and tossed it away. When their eyes met, his were soft and he watched her for a moment, scanning her face like she was a precious thing. “That is much better.”

“When you asked him to play chess, I thought you had changed your mind about trying to get rid of him.”

“Always be at least three moves ahead,” he said, leaning in to kiss her long and slow. After several more of the same he pulled back. “You were only joking before, with Solo, yes?”

She lifted a brow. “And what if I wasn’t?” His eyes went wide and she chuckled as she took his face into her hands and pulled his mouth back to hers.

 

 

**_September 1968 - 20 Miles outside of Flower City_ **

 

Gaby dismounts the dusty bike and pulls the full-face helmet from her head, squinting in the noon sun. She looks up, and though her heart is pounding inside her chest, her face is placid. A still lake that hides a world beneath. 

She’s spent weeks following roads and chasing trails out from town, worrying each day that someone would question her presence in the small place. She’s returned each night on her enduro bike, covered in dust or mud or both, and no one has looked at her suspiciously. After the first week, the motel owner had taken to waving and asking her about her ride, like it’s a regular occurrence in his small town life. Maybe it is. 

“So, you are real...” Her voice breaks the spell the discovery has cast, and the sharp scent of pine fills her senses once more, accompanied by that of sun-dried grass and the grit of dust lingering in the air from her arrival. The tree rises up before her, tall and twisting, almost exactly as she has been picturing. Thick, ancient branches turn and strain into the sky, and the bulbous malformation at the base of the trunk gives it the appearance of kneeling. It is so out of place in this forest of towering pine that it’s almost laughable.

Tucking her helmet under her arm, she moves toward it, each step like a leap of faith. A resounding decision. She places her hand on the rough bark, sliding her palm over the surface, afraid it is nothing more than an apparition. She walks around the trunk, looking for any clue or hint that would make her theory concrete. None exists. It is only a clue because it is part of a story in her head. A story told to her only once by a man she loved. 

A man she _ loves. _

 

 

**_May 1968... London._ **

 

“I think I have a story to keep Waverly off your back,” Solo said. “It will probably buy you an extra thirty days at most. After that, he’ll start asking questions.” 

She nodded, folding up the last shirt and stuffing it into the nondescript duffel bag. 

“You probably won’t be gone that long anyway, right?”

She looked up at him, her face impassive. She knew she couldn’t tell, but the knot of guilt for keeping this from him was becoming unbearable. His end date with the CIA had come and gone but the bastards had managed to pin him down for more. (One more thing she had no say in.) If she told him what she was up to, he wouldn’t let her go alone. She doubted the CIA would take that lying down.

“Gaby…” He wrapped a hand around her arm, his grip solid but not painful. He looked as though he wanted to say a million things but he remained silent. His dark blue eyes looked back at her with a rare sincerity few people had ever seen. Affection, confusion and acceptance, all there inside those keen eyes. Slowly, he loosened his grip, sliding his hand up her arm and over her back. 

“This won’t be the last time you see me, Solo,” she said, resolving to find some way to make it true. 

Maybe she wouldn’t even have to find a way at all. Maybe she’d be back here, far sooner than she imagined, her hopes dashed and her head firmly back in reality. 

“Look, it’s been a rough time, I know, but listen,” he looked out the window and she watched the muscles shift beneath his skin as he clenched his jaw. “You’re important to me. Not just because you are my partner… my friend, but because…” He looked down, his touch withdrawing so he could put his hands in his pockets. “I mean, I love you Gabs, you know that.” She knew full well the flippant way he said it was affected, a part of his shield. “But aside from that, for Per… for Illya,” he looked up at her then and the knot in her guts twisted tighter. “We should keep each other safe... for him. Don’t you think?”

Gaby’s head fell, hanging between her shoulders as she braced her arms on the full duffel bag. When she turned back, he was still watching her. He would come with her, even now, no questions asked, she knew that. She knew he’d do it for her and he’d do it for Illya, which somehow meant the more of the two. 

She reached up and cupped his face. “Thank you,” she said, “I promise, I’ll keep myself safe.” She leaned up and kissed his cheek. “You do the same.”

He nodded solemnly before scooping an arm around her, pulling her into his chest and kissing her hair. “I’ll be right here when you get back.”

 

 

**_September 1968... Flower City_ **

 

The stone seems to glow in the beam of sunlight that pours in through the motel window, dancing on the end of its chain, a star amongst the dust motes. A teardrop of pink sunshine. 

_ Antonma, City of Flowers, pagan tree, north. _

There is only one piece of the puzzle remaining and she has been putting off the need to solve it. Each time she’s tried, she’s found herself twisted up in a quagmire of thoughts, random threads of possibility. Nothing she has come up with lines up with the other clues. No matter how much she thinks, how many times she goes over the memory, there is no answer. 

_“…four details were always consistent. It was always Antonma, there was always the City of Flowers. There was always the large, gnarled tree that reached up to the sky with its ancient branches, and the number of degrees north grandfather had walked before burying his treasure always remained the same._ _”_

How many degrees north? The story hadn’t given her a number.

She has played with the phrases, played with words, but no answer has come. She’s translated the story into Russian and German, German to English and back again, until it stopped making sense. She’s scoured her memory for any other clue he might have given that she has missed. Now that she has found the tree, with her grace period coming to an end, she is starting to feel a rise of panic. 

“ _ Illya _ .”

The name brings with it an ache so deep inside her that she rubs a hand over her stomach to try and soothe it. It has been so long. So long now since she has seen his face, touched his skin or smelled the scent of him on her clothing. So long since she has heard rumble of his voice anywhere but inside her own head. 

Is she making all this up? Has she gone deep into some waking dream where she sees what she wants, chasing fantasies and tilting at windmills like Don Quixote? Does she need him to be alive so badly that she would manufacture it all from thin air? And if that is all she needs, for him to be alive, then wouldn’t it be  _ better _ to leave the trail unfollowed so she can always imagine that it’s true?

_ Just a stone. Nothing more. _

Maybe Illya’s voice in her head has been telling her the truth all along. Maybe it is nothing more. Nothing but a story, nothing but a gift to a woman from a man. Nothing but a pretty thing to hang around her neck and remind her of him when he is away. Like any other, ordinary couple.

Except…

The stone in the story hadn’t really been just a stone, had it? It may not have been explained, and the grandson may not have understood it, but it was never  _ just a stone _ . 

Why would the old man have buried a stone that meant nothing? Why would he talk of it, dream of it, long for it all his life? What had he wanted for his grandson to find, to  _ understand _ , that he would create such a clear path to follow?

It  _ can’t _ be just a stone.

With trembling fingers, she turns the cool pendant in her hand. Cool again, like Illya’s hands,  always so cool in contrast to all the warmth inside him. She studies it carefully with her new idea in mind, and then wishes for a jeweler’s loupe so she can inspect it even more closely.  _ No. No, _ she thinks.  _ It isn’t that complicated _ . It wouldn’t require special equipment. 

The top of the stone is secured to the bail with a silver cap that covers the top completely. She can’t see the entire thing. Deciding quickly, before the ache in her heart can change her mind, she takes the pendant in a firm grip and twists, hard. The fastening breaks apart beneath her fingers and the stone comes off in her hand. 

She holds her breath as she looks down into her open palm. The small teardrop wobbles with an anxious tremble she can’t suppress. 

Carved into the polished surface at the very top is a tiny ring of Cyrillic symbols.

 

 

**_Early July 1964... Somewhere in Liechtenstein_ **

 

Gaby swore loudly as she busted her knuckles against the rusted Bantam BRC-40’s engine. The clatter of a dropped wrench echoed through the musty shed and she yanked her hand out, shaking it as the pain radiated up through her arm. “ _ Stück Scheiße! _ ” she spat, glaring down at the neglected pile of metal. 

“What is it?” Illya called from somewhere above her. “What is wrong?” 

His head appeared through one of the gaping holes in the roof and she glared up at him, as if he were somehow responsible for her pain, cradling her hand against her chest. “This…  _ thing_,” she waved a hand at the little American-made vehicle, “is not cooperating.”

Reaching in to grab hold of the rafter below him, Illya tested his weight on it before using it to swing down with that uncanny agility that never ceased to surprise her. He landed gracefully beside her and she took a small step back, her gaze falling to the place where his sweater had risen, revealing a line of pale skin, and dark golden hair. “Let me see,” he said, adjusting the fall of his clothing as he stepped closer. She blinked as she returned her attention to his face. 

“See what?”

“Your hand. You’ve injured it.”

“It’s fine.” she pulled back a little more. “It’s nothing.”

“If it is nothing, then let me look.”

“I don't need you to tend to me, Illya.”

He tsked. “You are injured, I am your partner now, stop acting like a child.”

“Excuse me?” She narrowed her eyes at him sharply but he only continued to hold out his hand to her. Letting out a huff of exasperation, she set her jaw and conceded. Illya took the injured appendage carefully, long fingers wrapping around her wrist as he pulled both hand and owner toward him. Gaby glowered at him, still trying to keep her distance.

The Bantam wasn’t the only thing trying her patience. She and Illya had been pushing their way through this forest for four days. Three nights of sleeping under the same wool blanket, cuddled up to stay warm, her waking up to the weight of him at her back. He was always there, his voice rumbling, his huge hands reaching out to steady her now and then as they climbed rugged terrain. His gentle, playful humor trying to lighten the more difficult moments. No one and nothing else to distract her from whatever it was drawing her to him. 

She let out a shaky breath as he bent over her hand. “I told you, it’s nothing.”

He just hummed in response and pulled out a handkerchief, gently tried wiping away the grease and grime. His hands were cool, but his touch warmed her and she slowly relaxed into it, even with the sting it brought when he brushed over the wound. “We should clean this.”

“Illya—”

He ignored her plea and led her to the the bucket of water he’d brought up from the stream earlier, her arm tucked under his to keep her close. She stood stiffly at his side as he dipped the clean corner of the handkerchief into the water and brought it back to her knuckles. One of his strokes jarred the abraded skin and she hissed in pain. His mouth flattened into a thin line at the sound before he began softly stroking over the back of her hand with his thumb. She stared at it for a moment, felt the warmth that seemed to zing out, not from his thumb, but from the  _ contact _ . A little frisson of need that thrummed up her arm to her chest and radiated out to other places. She shifted her stance in an attempt to distract herself.

Forcing herself to look away from what he was doing, she lifted her gaze to his face instead. Her eyes traced the furrow of his brow as he focused on his task, followed the four days of beard growth along his jaw, took in the way his lips parted as he navigated around her injured flesh. Her perusal caught on those lips, her breath stalling, and she hoped he couldn’t feel the way her pulse was racing, or that, if he could, he’d attribute it to irritation and not what it actually was.

“There,” he said after what felt like ages, tucking the bit of fabric back into his pocket. He continued to hold her hand and his fingers were beginning to warm at her wrist.  “Better?”

She swallowed. “Yes, thank you.” 

He nodded. “Good.”

His thumb was still making those achingly soft circles on her skin and he was standing close enough that she could catch that damn scent of his, a warm, wholesome musk, clean sweat and just the barest hint of the soap he always used. They hadn’t bathed in days, and the scent of him should repulse her, only it didn’t. Instead, every time he came near she had to resist the urge to try and crawl inside him. She didn’t like how it affected her, how  _ he _ affected her, so beyond her control but she couldn't make herself pull away. 

“How can you be so calm?” she asked after a moment.

“Why shouldn’t I be calm?”

She huffed, everything inside her tight, on edge. “If I can’t fix this vehicle,” she said through gritted teeth. “Then we’re all stuck: Solo in Geneva with half the information he needs and us... wherever the hell this is.”

He lifted his eyebrows. “You don’t remember your lessons?”

She straightened her back. “You’re the one with the map.”

He gave a little shake of his head, making a little click with his tongue. “We’re in the Rätikon range of the Eastern Alps, Liechtenstein. Approximately, twenty—” she put the fingers of her free hand over his lips.

“Don’t be a show off,” she all but growled. He smiled beneath her fingers and she became very aware of how smooth his lips felt and the warm exhale of his breath on her skin. She yanked her hand back. “Be serious.”

His gaze slid over her face, touching on her lips a moment before returning to her eyes. Too real, too sincere. “I am always serious,” he teased and then the smile faded. “I am not worried.”

She huffed, though whether it was because of his words or his gaze, his nearness, or that thumb on her skin, she couldn’t be sure. “Why not?”

“You will fix it.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” she returned sharply. “You’re not the one being asked to resurrect the dead!” She lifted her chin, using her stubbornness as a shield against the nagging insecurities. Yeah, she was good with cars, and she knew it, but this was a discarded piece of World War II military equipment that had spent the last twenty years untouched in a dilapidated shed. She looked around. “Maybe, if I had some machining equipment...”

“You don’t need equipment.”

“What makes you so sure, hmm? You know all about engines now, I suppose.” He still hadn’t released her, his hand almost absently massaging hers now, thumb and fingers pressing into her palm, coaxing it to relax.

“No.” He looked from her hand to the Bantam then up to her face again. “But I know  _ you, _ and this is what you do. You take things apart and put them back together, and they are better when you are done.”

She inhaled sharply at the unexpected compliment and found herself searching his face. For what, she didn’t know. “Illya…” Her hand was trembling in his, couldn’t he feel it?

He looked back at her. “Yes?”

She shook her head but even as she did so, she leaned up on her toes, her free hand wrapping around the back of his neck and pulling him forward.

“Gaby?” it was little more than a whisper as she drew near.

“Mmm?” she hummed softly, lips so close they were almost touching.

“What are we doing?” His other hand had come to rest in the small of her back, securing her, bringing her closer.

“I think you know what we’re doing...” and then she was kissing him. He went still against the onslaught of her mouth for only a moment before the hand on her back tightened and he tilted his head, moving in closer to kiss her back fiercely. 

Gaby moaned, pulling back for a breath and he set his forehead against hers, his breathing rapid. “You want this?” he asked, awed.

“I want  _ you _ ,” she answered, bringing her injured hand out from between them to join the other at the back of his neck. “You want me too?”

The words were slow to come, but his body answered immediately, the way he sank into her, his shaky inhale, his other arm wrapping around her, two broad palms pressing into her through the thin material of her blouse. “Yes,” he said finally, “very much, yes,” and he slanted his mouth over hers, kissing her deeply as one of his hands came up to cradle the back of her head. As if a dam had broken, all his carefully restrained passion washed over her, a flood of heat and need, and it dissolved every last bit of resistance inside her. She melted against him, hands clutching the back of his head and it was long moments before they parted again, both breathing heavily. 

“What about the car?” he asked, ducking his head to kiss along her throat, nosing at the corner of her jaw so he could suck at her pulse point. 

She let her head fall back. “I’ll figure it out,” she said, then took his head in her hands and lifted it, looking him in the eye. “But right now I want to figure out  _ us _ .”

He nodded, eyes falling to her lips again. “What about Solo then?”

“Mmm,” she said, moving in for a quick pull on his lips. “I think Solo can wait an extra day or two.”

 

 

**_September 1968... The Pagan Tree_ **

 

Noah Mueller leaves the small town of Flowers early on a Tuesday morning. He doesn’t check out of the small motel where he’s been staying, and even leaves behind a few articles of clothing and a used compression bandage. He takes his enduro-style motorcycle for a ride along the forest trails, and accidentally jumps it into the Clark Fork River. No one ever finds his body, but a local mechanic manages to get the rights to the bike. It has been excellently maintained by the young man, and the mechanic makes a nice profit off the sale. His daughter has the fanciest dress at her homecoming that year.

That same morning, in the pale, pre-dawn light, a determined woman no one in the area has ever met before stands at the base of a gnarled, ancient tree and, compass in hand, heads off into the forest.

  
  
  



	3. Finding Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaby takes the final steps to solve her mystery. These clues will lead her to the truth, once and for all, but will it be the truth she's hoping for?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has come by to read this! Thank you for your comments and kudos! I hope you enjoy this installment and that you are all doing well.

 

_ Finding Home _

 

What exactly is love?  

Do you love someone because you desire them? Lust for them? Because your body craves theirs?

Is it because you need them? Because you can’t live without them? Is it because they make your life better?

Or is it the other way around. Your life becomes secondary and your happiness is derived from bringing happiness to them? And does that happiness come from  _ their  _ happiness or the  _ act  _ of making them happy?

Is it just hormones and electric pulses? Chemicals in your brain? An addiction?

Is it all of the above?

Gaby certainly has no idea. Her connections with love have been so tenuous. Had her father loved her? Would he have left her if he had? Or had he somehow felt that he’d loved her more by leaving her behind? She can’t see how that’s possible, but then, given the way his story ended, who knows? Definitely not Gaby. 

Waverly has often acted as a pseudo-father for her, but he is, in fact, her boss and, in all honesty, her friend. The truth is, she doesn’t need any more father figures in her life. Still, she would say that she loves Waverly, loves his drive, his perseverance, his belief in something everyone else was convinced was impossible. She loves her role in that dream. 

She loves her little flat, the tall windows hung with gauzy curtains and the wide array of houseplants she’s barely kept alive. She loves her job, the thrill of it, the purpose. Loves the mental game, the physical exertion, the playacting. She even loves her neighbor, Matilde, and her yappy little dog. 

Loves Solo too...

She loves them all but she doesn’t  _ need _ them. 

She doesn’t need Illya either, and maybe in the end, that is what makes her decision. She doesn’t need Illya. She  _ wants  _ him. 

She wants his large, cold hands and his even larger, warm heart. She wants his rumbling voice, his reticent humor, and his fucking, ridiculous sincerity. She wants all the bits and parts and pieces of him. 

She wants  _ Illya _ . 

Wants him more than coffee in the morning after a night with no sleep, more than the burn of vodka after a really hard day. She wants him more than the curtains and the plants and the yapping dog and the rush she feels when she knows she’s going to take her enemy down.

And today she will choose what she  _ wants _ , not because she needs it. Needs to eat, needs to live, needs to escape. She wants him. That’s her choice.  _ Illya Kuryakin _ is her choice. The whole wide world be damned. And if this message is real — not a figment or a windmill in disguise — then he wants her too. 

He had left the choice to her. She doesn’t know the circumstances, doesn’t know what set him on this path, but he had known it was a possibility and he’d left her a trail. Trusted her (how many people had he been able to fully trust in his life?) with a map that could lead any of his enemies straight to his door. He may not have thought he was worthy of her choice but he wants her to choose him anyway. 

And she likes giving Illya what he wants.

~

**_April 1965..._ **

 

Consciousness returned slowly. A shifting of darkness, a warm sensation across her legs, an unexpected weight by her right thigh. There was pain—a dull throbbing ache throughout her entire body—and, for a moment, she wanted to shy away from it, move back to the numb darkness. But something was urging her forward. There was something she needed to do, someone she needed to see.

The beep of machines drew her out further, calling to her. Someone was injured, they were in the hospital. Illya? Solo? Then she realized, as another pulse of pain washed over her, that _ she _ was the one who was hurt. She had a flash of memory: the reflection of car headlights on wet cement, the rev of an engine, the crunching screech of twisting metal. The face of a man.

That’s right. She’d crashed the car.

Her eyes fluttered open and, at first, the lack of light worried her. Then her eyes adjusted and she could make out the small space: the machine by her head showing her increased heart rate, the window to her left. Beyond the glass city lights were set against the darkness, but she didn’t recognize the skyline. She tried to sit up but the pain in her shoulder stopped her and she eased back into the pillows behind her. 

The movement made her once again aware of the weight on her legs and she looked down. Blond head resting on the bed beside her. An arm flung protectively over her legs. The sage green of a shirt sleeve providing a stark contrast of color against the white hospital sheets. A face was turned toward her, worry lining his familiar features even in sleep.

_ Illya. _

At the sight of him, the anxious unrest inside her stilled. 

God, she had missed him.

She tried to reach out for him, to run her fingers through his hair, feel him and know he was real, but her hand wouldn’t cooperate. She looked down at herself and found her arm bound to her chest by a dark blue sling. She lifted her left hand and brought it across her body, only to be brought up short by a stab from the IV in her wrist. 

She hissed at the sudden, sharp pain and Illya jerked awake, sitting back in his seat and looking at her. He blinked a moment, looking dazed and sleep deprived. There were dark circles under his eyes and wrinkles from the sheets were drawn on his cheek in lines of red. He was the best thing she’d ever seen, and her chest drew tight, stealing her breath.

“Hey...”

He reached for her, his motions slow and careful as he touched her. A long breath escaped him as he ran his fingers lightly along her jaw and across her brow. 

“Hello,” he said finally, relief a tremor in his deep voice. 

She looked up into his eyes, a stormy sea of concern beneath a furrowed brow, and reached for him again. This time he was close enough and she copied his actions, running her fingers over his brow, his cheek, his lips. He took her wrist gently in his fingers and kissed the palm of her hand, pressing his face into it and closing his eyes for several seconds.

“Mission accomplished?” she asked. 

“I could not care less about the mission right now,” Illya said, gruff-edged and shaky. His other hand reached up to tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear. “But yes. You did very well. As you always do.”

She closed her eyes. Took a deep breath. Let it out slowly.  _ Success _ .

Illya’s cheek slid against her fingers, lips pressing another kiss there. “Please,” he whispered against her calloused skin and she opened her eyes to look at him. She watched as he shook his head, nosing into her palm. “Please do not ever do that again.  _ Please. _ ”

She wasn’t sure if he meant the three month deep cover mission or driving her car off a four story building to take out the bad guy. If she were in his shoes...  _ both. _

She let the warmth of his breath ghost over her hand, took in the tense lines of his face, the angled corner of his jaw, the sweep of his lashes on his cheek. 

“I love you,” she said softly. 

She heard his sharp inhale of breath, felt his fingers tighten subtly on her wrist. His gaze pierced her, two spots of bright blue in the dim room.

The mission had lasted three months. Three months without friendly contact. Three months of doing what she must to protect the mission, protect herself, protect the world. Each step a choice, a decision, weighed carefully against the alternatives.

Waverly hadn’t wanted to give her this mission — none of them had been happy with the idea that she would have to go in alone, without contact or ally — but in the end, all of them had agreed that it was their best option. Even Illya. 

That night, he had made love to her with such purpose, each touch deliberate, intentional, reaching into her soul to bury himself there in a way she knew now she would never be able to remove.

She’d done her job and done it well, but, even as she had hidden Gaby Teller far from view, he had never been too far from her mind.

In the dark hours, when her insomnia kept her from sleep, she’d slipped from her enemy’s bed and walked the halls—the cool, rosy pendant a touchstone at her throat. There had been a map in his office: a broad, antique piece of artwork that she would lay her fingers against, measuring the distance between herself and everything she cared for. The distance between herself and the man who had offered her his love and gotten only silence in return.

He hadn’t offered it as a leash, or a bridle to hold her back, but as a promise. An affirmation of who he was to her. And who she was to him. That he would be there when she returned and beyond. 

How could he have such faith, such  _ hope _ , knowing where she was going, what she might have to do?

It was in those nights she realized that her silence had been a lie. A wall of protection she had erected between them. She realized that she had known for a very long time just how dear Illya was to her. Realized how deeply she wanted him, not just in her bed, but just...  _ there _ . She wanted to be able to look around at any moment, lock eyes with him and know that there was at least one person in this whole, wide world who so fully understood her that he would know what she was saying without words. See him and know that, however impossible, she was his and he was hers.

He was her pillar of support and her soft place to fall,  and more importantly, he trusted her enough to let her be the same for him. 

If that was love, then she loved him more than she ever imagined was possible. 

Still, she hadn’t meant to tell him quite like that: blurting it out like it meant little more than asking for tea.

“I mean it,” she added quietly. Then, catching his eye, holding his gaze, “It’s not the drugs or the concussion. I love you, Illya. I _love_ you. So much...” 

Maybe it  _ was _ the drugs or the concussion that made her voice sound so thick, but the confession was entirely hers. 

His exhale was shaky, his eyes closing again. He pressed his lips to the inside of her wrist this time, before placing several more along the soft skin of her forearm. When he looked at her again, she felt the weight of it all the way to her toes. 

“Took you long enough,” he said, voice throaty and low.

“Well,” she said trying to shrug, but failing due to the tenderness in her shoulder. “I’ve been away for a bit.”

For a long moment they simply stayed there, resting in each other’s gaze, Illya’s thumb making little circles on her wrist, her fingers stroking through the hair by his temple. Still and safe. 

Without breaking eye contact, he reached into his pocket with his free hand and lifted the familiar pendant to dangle from his fingers. “They had to take it off when they brought you in,” he said. “I kept it safe for you, if you still want it.”

Tears pricked at the back of her eyes as she looked at the little stone.  _ Such weakness _ , she thought. She pulled her hand from his and reached out to touch it, blood still caked beneath her short nails. 

“You still want me to have it? Even after...everything?” 

Her gaze returned to his, looking for anger or resentment, but she found none.

He tsked, adding a small shake of his head. He took her hand back, brushing his fingers over hers, urging her to open them. He poured the necklace into her palm, then closed her fingers around it and held her hand between both of his own. 

“This is yours.  _ Forever _ ,” he said, giving her abraded knuckles a soft kiss before locking his eyes on hers again. 

“Just as I am.”

~

 

**_September, 1968..._ **

 

The air is heavy with the humectant scent of decaying pine needles and rich, unturned earth. The silence of the forest presses in on her until she's encased in the gentle buzz of the insects and the soft scurry of the small creatures making this place their home. The ground, thick with years of deep, undisturbed debris, gives softly beneath her steps as she makes her way through the dense wood. The branches of the undergrowth pull at her clothing, trying to snatch away the knit cap on her head or tug the backpack from her shoulders. More than once she considers turning back. This journey is ridiculous. How can a person live out here without a road of some kind? Surely there is another way. If this is some kind of test, she will kill him when she finds him. 

_ If I find him. _

The thought still plagues her. Her pessimistic side demands she stay prepared for disappointment.  _ Never get your hopes so high you can’t survive the fall, _ she tells herself for the hundredth time. Her last fall had been hard enough. Her heart still hasn’t fully recovered and the thought brings her face to face with the one fear she’s been most avoiding since the start.

What if this is all true — the clues, the path, the plan — but when she gets there, when she finds whatever they have been leading her to, he’s not there. What if she finds whatever it is he had so carefully and meticulously planned for himself, for  _ them_ , only to discover that it’s useless in the end. Discovers that Illya Kuryakin died in a plane crash over Belarus before he could ever make any of it a reality. 

What if she will never again find his pale, blue eyes across the room, or catch his subtle smirk when he knows someone is wrong. Never again listen to him arguing with Solo over best spy practices, or commenting on the cut of a dress as he fastens the buttons along her spine. Never again feel the weight of him in the bed beside her, or the cool touch of his hands. Because his body is buried in a cold Russian grave, behind a wall of iron, far from where her eyes can ever see.

The thoughts force her to a stop and she bends forward, bracing her hands on her knees until her chest stops seizing. When she can breathe again, she lifts her chin, sets her jaw, and pushes forward.

She holds the compass tightly in her hand, a small relic from a former life and it isn’t even hers. It’s not the riskiest bit of contraband on her person, (that would be the broken necklace nestled deep in her front pocket) but it isn’t exactly safe either. Tracking a Soviet defector with his own Russian-made compass. 

The trees become denser in places, forcing her off course. In others, they thin naturally, opening up into clearings with a view of the open sky. More than once she finds herself looking out over the distant, blue-stained mountains, their peaks - tipped in white snow - arching against an even bluer sky. They fade into purples and grays as they retreat into the distance. The beauty of it gives her an unexpected sense of solace.

She walks on, hour after hour. Walks until her legs protest, until she feels weariness down to her bones, until daylight has begun to fade, replaced by the grayish gloom only the deep woods can provide. Adjusting the pack that is digging into her shoulders, she decides to settle down in the next clearing she finds, curling up beneath her wool blanket to sleep. She takes two steps forward, plan made, but stops when the quiet of the forest is disturbed by a discordant sound. It’s something entirely apart from the noise of the wind in the trees or the chatter of the creatures who live here and she holds her breath, listens, unsure if she’s really heard anything at all. Maybe her mind is playing tricks on her, as exhausted as she is, but then it comes again: The firm, resounding thump of an axe striking wood. 

Her heart skips a beat, her chest growing tight. All the anxiety, the pressure, the forbidden  _ hope _ , she has been suppressing since the moment she wrote out  _ Montana _ on that sheet of paper at three am, comes flooding in, threatening to drown her. 

She bolts forward. 

 

~

**_August, 1965..._ **

 

“Are you scared?”

“No,” she said, but smiled at him in the mirror, knowing he could see the lie. 

“You will be okay.”

“You’ll be close by?”

A small smile of recognition pulled at the corner of his lips. “As close as I can be.”

She exhaled a slightly shaky breath and held out her arms for inspection. “Well, here is Mrs. Ramsey, wealthy widow with her eyes on world domination. Have you fashioned her to your liking?”

“She is a force to be reckoned with,” he answered. “But, she is missing a little something.” His hand lifted, a chain dangling from his fingers, and the light glinting off the silver caught her eye. 

“A necklace?”

He hummed the affirmative and laid it gently against her skin. She lifted her hair to give him access to the clasp and when he’d finished, he kissed the base of her neck, his lips warm and tempting, daring her to put off the mission just a bit longer so she could get lost in him instead. 

She cleared her throat and fingered the rosy pink  pendant. It felt cool to the touch and it made her think of his hands. A tremor of nervousness trickled through her and she lifted her chin. “My covers don’t usually wear such subtle accessories. Is this something specific for her?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head before making eye contact with her in the mirror again. “This necklace is for Gaby.” When she looked at him questioningly, he added, “From me.”

“Illya,” she admonished. “I can’t take any trackers with me. He’ll find them.”

“No trackers.” He sets his hands on her shoulders, watching as they slide gently down her arms before he lifts his eyes to her reflection again. “It is a  _ gift. _ To know I am thinking of you and that I will be there when you need me. I will always be where you can find me.”

She turned in his arms. The dais she was on almost brought them face to face. She hardly had to look up for her eyes to find his, the reflection no longer between them. “Promise?”

He took her face gently in his hands, his gaze skipping from her eyes to her lips and back again. “This is not the time to say this, I know this, and I don’t want to say… to infer, that I may not have another chance, because you  _ will _ be coming back to me, but I have already taken too long to say it…” 

He breathed out, long and slow, gaze locking onto hers.  “I love you _.” _ He pulled in a shaking breath _. “I love you_ , Gaby. So yes, I promise. You will always be able to find me.”

 

~

 

The sound of chopping wood grows louder as she presses on, no longer using her compass for direction. She relies on her ears and on the odd tug in her heart that seems to pull her onward, like the needle in a compass always pointing to magnetic north. Only the thick underbrush keeps her from breaking into a run, forcing her steps to be deliberate and careful. When a stray branch snatches the stocking cap off her head for the hundredth time, she doesn’t stop to retrieve it. 

Then she bursts through the tree line, the dense trees disappearing all at once, and she steps into a broad, grassy clearing. The light from the waning sun, retreating behind the trees to the west of her, casts the entire area in a soft, fantasy light. Long shadows and stripes of gold. Her eyes take a moment to adjust to the change, blinking rapidly as they search for what she can’t bring herself to even  _ hope _ she’ll find. 

Late-blooming wildflowers are scattered amongst the tall grasses that border the area. Tall, lodgepole pine and western cedar are interspersed with larch trees and paper birch whose leaves have changed to red, orange and yellow for the season. 

A moderate-sized cabin, built of thick, pine logs, sits across from her, overlooking the expansive field. Five, smoothly planed steps lead up to a front porch with hand-hewn railings and a pot of flowers on the top step trails a swath of color over the side. There is a wisp of smoke curling from the chimney pipe. It hovers overhead in the cool air, filling the place with its tangy scent.

A small flock of chickens peck about the bottom step, their happy warbles and occasional squawks mixing with that of the wild birds behind her. 

The sound of chopping wood stops and Gaby’s eyes dart about, searching for the source of her siren song. 

A man appears then, turning around the side of the cabin and striding alongside the western wall. He is shirtless and sweating, a quarter-cut log in each large hand. He stacks them onto a pile near the front steps, the clatter echoing sharply across the clearing. Straightening, he wipes his brow on his forearm before digging a fist into his lower back, stretching slowly. 

_ Illya. _

Gaby’s eyes devour him, starved, disbelieving. His hair is a bit longer and lighter than before and  a thick shadow of beard threatens the achingly familiar line of his jaw. His body is leaner, more cut, the definition of muscle in his arms and abdomen more pronounced than she remembers. He is tanned from outdoor labor and a line of pale skin peeking out just above the waistband of his worn jeans, reveals the contrast. She stands stock-still, silent, staring, afraid that if she moves or speaks, she’ll break the spell and he’ll disappear. A figment of her exhausted mind.   

She watches him bend down to a bucket and scoop out a handful of water, bringing it to his mouth to drink before splashing it on his face and over the back of his neck.  Watches as he stands, droplets of water trailing down his skin. Watches as he grabs a bit of fabric from the railing and drags it over his face. Watches as he suddenly goes still, his shoulders straightening as he lifts his head, the motionless stance as unnatural in this place as it is familiar to her.  She holds her breath as he slowly turns in her direction. 

She is dressed for the fading summer and for her journey through the woods, wearing a thick flannel jacket, sturdy trousers and hiking boots. Her hair is shorter than it’s ever been, cut to just above her ears. It’s a mess about her head and littered with leaves. There is a long scratch along her left cheek and dirt on her chin. She’s sure she is unrecognizable.

Their gazes connect with an almost palpable ‘click’ and he frowns, blinking at her, his stance wary. Unconsciously, she takes a step toward him, then another. After three steps, his countenance changes completely. The caution flees. His shoulders fall and he takes a hesitant, half-step back as he watches her approach with wonder and fear. 

She stumbles to a stop in front of him, yanking the backpack from her shoulders and dropping it at her feet. Her heart is pounding wildly, the blood rushing in her ears making her dizzy. Relief and fear and anger and love and all that fucking  _ hope _ rise up inside her as she looks him over, her thoughts as tangled as her emotions. 

She slaps him hard, and he takes it without flinching. Her hand falls to her side, fingers tingling, palm throbbing as she watches her handprint bloom red on his precious face. Gasping, she falls into him, pressing her forehead into his sternum. She wraps trembling arms around his torso, her hands gripping him, fingertips dimpling the skin of his back. Digging in, holding tight. 

He’s real and solid and so absolutely  _ there _ and the sob that breaks free from her is loud, echoing off the wall of trees that circle them. It’s followed by more of the same. Sobs that tear at her throat and shake her small body even as they seem to come from someone else altogether. 

The familiar, prized scent of him — the soap he’s always used, his clean sweat, the same wholesome musk of him beneath it all — surrounds her and she holds him tighter, clinging like a child. It’s ages before the weight of his hands settle on her back, sending a pang of nostalgia zinging though her. Ages before she hears his voice, that deep, well loved rumble she has longed for every minute, every  _ second  _ since he’d said good-bye on that private airfield in England over two years ago. 

“Are you really here?” His voice seems almost rusty, like the creak of a neglected hinge, and she aches for it.

She pulls away, wiping her face on her sleeve before looking up at him with fathomless dark eyes, unashamed of their red rims or her tear-stained cheeks. She reaches into her pocket, fingers fumbling in her rush, and pulls out the necklace, offering it to him in her open palm. He looks down, his eyes locking onto the precious stone.

“Help me fix it?”

He doesn’t answer. He stares down at the broken pendant, the glinting silver chain and she sees a tremor run through his body. He looks from the stone to her face, his own an open wound, and then he is lifting her into his arms, pressing his mouth to hers in an anguished, desperate kiss. 

His arms are still strong, still sure and they hold her so tightly. She kisses him back, clutching his head, as she tastes his lips again and again and again. She swallows the sob that falls from them, answering it with her own, and the tears they taste are hers and his. 

When they finally break apart from each other, gasping for breath, he cups her cheek and looks into her eyes. His gaze darts over her face and she wonders if he’s searching for all the time that has separated them until now. 

“Your hair,” he says softly.

“Your beard,” she returns, scratching her fingers in the layer of scruff that’s just long enough to feel soft beneath her fingers.

She stares into his eyes, lost in them or, perhaps, she is  _ found _ . She feels his chest expand as he inhales, feels his hand shift, fingers spreading wide on her lower back. 

“Took you long enough,” he says, a tremor running though his voice and she sets her forehead against his. She’s been away for more than a bit this time.

She gives a little shrug, eyes still closed. “Stuff to do, you know,” she offers, playful but breathless. She pulls back and looks into his eyes, bright, perfect blue. “I knew you wanted me to be sure.”

His exhale is shaky.“Does this mean you will stay?”

She has spent so much time deliberating that question. Staring up at the ceiling in the dead of night. Staring out the window of an airplane, or staring down the length of an open highway. In the end, she realizes she had already made this choice a long time ago. It’s not a choice between Illya Kuryakin or the whole, damn world, because the world is of little use to her without him. But with him... well then, she already has the only parts that matter. 

“Forever,” Gaby replies and Illya smiles. 

~

In June of 1968, Gaby Teller got off a plane in Sydney, Australia. She went shopping, saw some sights, sold some old jewelry, and spent the night in her hotel. She never checked out and no one ever saw her again. 

That same week, little old Henry Crowley flew out of Brisbane on a pleasure trip to New York City. Sometime later, a young and chipper Lilly Parker flew out of Newark airport headed to Portland for a job interview. After hitchhiking his way to Bend, Oregon, Noah Mueller bought a used enduro motorbike from a listing in the paper and headed east for a great American road trip. No one missed these people when they didn’t return. There was nothing waiting for them anywhere, no one who needed or wanted them, and, though somewhere in London, Gaby Teller’s disappearance raised a deep concern in one man and an ache of loss in another, she’d come to accept it, because  _ Ruth Young _ had finally found where she belonged, and that was all she wanted. 

Nothing more. 

~

“Hello, I’m Daniel Miller. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

It is said over scrambled eggs, rustic bread with homemade butter, and hot coffee made on a wood-burning stove as morning creeps in around the cabin windows. There hasn’t been much sleeping. 

His accent is still there, a hint of it, probably not recognizable if she hadn’t expected to hear it. She smiles at him, adjusting the quilt she’s wearing as a robe. It falls right back off her shoulder as she holds out her free hand. 

“I’m Ruth. The pleasure is all mine.” 

  
  


The End

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	4. Chasing Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon Solo is a free man. He should be relieved, ecstatic even.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are all so awesome and amazing. Happy Holidays to everyone who has holidays and just happy regular day if you don't. I really want to say thank you to all of you who've stopped by and let me know what you liked. It's so appreciated. I hope you enjoyed this offering so far, and now, because I couldn't just leave him behind, Solo gets some resolution of his own. Here's the epilogue.

 

 

**December 1972 - UNCLE HQ London**

 

Waverly watches him from across the wide expanse of an ornate, antique desk, and, as happens on occasion with the man, Solo has to resist the impulse to squirm under the scrutiny. Instead, he looks down at the paperwork in his hand, his eyes scanning over the words one more time.

He’s a free man.

It took several years longer than it should have, and, in the end, Waverly had had to pull a few strings to get it done. But here it is, in his hands, proof that he is no longer contracted with the CIA. A full pardon as reward for faithful service.

_Merry Christmas to me..._

He and Waverly are ensconced in the older man’s office after hours — having just received the final papers. The fireplace is lit and the lights are dim, casting the room in a warm, orange glow.

“So, Mr. Solo, now that the noose is off your neck,” Waverly asks before taking another sip of his tea. “What do you intend to do with yourself?”

Solo hesitates, his mind still processing. He should deflect the question but instead finds himself saying, “To be perfectly honest, sir, I have no idea.” He looks at his neglected cup for a long moment, wishing it was filled with a nice, stiff scotch instead of the rich, black tea Waverly had poured.

“Return to your old ways perhaps?” There’s a twinkle in the Brit’s eye and Solo smiles.

“I don’t think I will, no, but…”

“It’s alright, you don’t have to have the answers right now. In fact, I encourage you to take some time off. Breathe a little, now that the air is yours again.”

Solo swallows, a bit touched by the sentiment, but there is a hollowness to his joy, to the relief that he wants very much to feel. At one time, he had longed for this freedom, longed to return to his old way of life. The autonomy, the spoils, the pleasures... Then UNCLE had come along and things had changed. He doesn’t want to admit it but the agency has changed him. Not just the agency. The people, two in particular had... well...

He hadn’t realized he’d made plans that included them, not until now when the future stretches out before him without them. He should feel satisfied, excited... _free._  Instead he feels unmoored.

“I’m sure I’ll find _something_ to do with myself,” he says,roguish smile chosen with care.

Waverly’s return smile is small, his gaze annoyingly discerning. “Just know that you are welcome here, if you choose to stay. Not just welcome, _wanted_. You could be an UNCLE agent only, no more shared loyalty. Continue to work with your current team.”

“Thank you, I’ll… take it under advisement.” It does sound good, if he is being honest, working only with UNCLE, no longer having to straddle that fence, parceling out just the right amount of information on both sides so as not to lose everything.

“You do that. In the meantime...” Waverly leans forward and opens one of his desk drawers, retrieving a pen and a piece of paper.  “I have a little something for you. Consider it a Christmas gift. Tis the season after all,” he adds with one of those wry smiles that crinkle the corners of his blue eyes.

Solo frowns. “You didn’t need to do that, sir.”

“Of course I didn’t, but I have... or rather _am._ ” He writes down a list in his precise, narrow script and when he’s finished, he slides the paper across the desk to him. Solo lifts it up, reads over the the list of places, events, and times, then reads them again. He looks back at his boss, frown deepening.

“I don’t understand.”  

He lays the paper back down and Waverly snatches it up, rising to his feet, and carrying the paper to the fire. Solo feels the little hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as he watches Waverly light the corner, holding it for a moment before releasing it into the flames. Together, they watch it burn in silence.

This isn’t the first time Waverly has used this technique to give him secret information. The man had become adept at taking advantage of Solo’s eidetic memory and the use of it now is unsettling. “What exactly was that, sir?”

“Your vacation.” Waverly’s lips turn up ever so slightly as he settles back into his chair.

There’s an air about him that has Solo’s instincts prickling with suspicion. He raises a single brow. “A vacation no one else can know about?”

“Yes, exactly.” Waverly pauses. “I think it best that as few people as possible knew you were going and where. Never can be too cautious.”

“So... this gift of yours is actually a mission.”

“No, not at all.” Waverly leans back, crosses his legs. Perfectly at ease. “I think you will understand in the end. The question is: do you trust me?”

Solo turns his head and looks at the fire for a moment. The paper may be completely gone, but it is still in his head as clear as day. Running over the memory so he won’t lose it, he shifts his gaze back to Waverly. “I’ve trusted you for a long time now, and, so far, I haven’t had a reason to stop.”

“Good.” Waverly says, smiling from behind steepled fingers. “Then, enjoy your trip.”

Standing to his feet, Solo nods. He reaches out to shake Waverly’s hand and the man accepts, holding onto it for a moment. “By the way,” he says, looking at him with that keen gaze. “There was a donation made in my name to the London Children’s Charity. You wouldn’t know anything about that would you?”

Solo furrows his brow into what he knows is a charmingly confused look. “No, sir, not at all.”

~

London is dressed for the holidays but Solo is far too lost in his own thoughts to enjoy it. He makes his way along the sidewalks, letting people brush past him in their rush to finish preparations for their celebrations. He turns up the collar of his jacket to combat the sudden chill and pushes his hands into his pockets. His head is a buzz that he can’t seem to tame. For years now, he’s pushed through this season, and all the others, with an easy air of indifference. But this year, he can’t seem to find that place inside him.

He remembers walking down this same sidewalk years ago, Gaby huddled between Peril and himself: red hat, scarf and mittens as a shield against the cold.

“Who’s place are we eating at tonight?” she’d asked.

“Well, your place is all decorated for the season,” he’d replied, smiling down at her. She’d really gotten into it that year, he remembers. Holly on every surface.

“But you are the better cook,” Peril had offered, looking at him. Gaby had made a noise of dissent and hugged herself tighter.

“I don’t know whether to be offended or agree with you.” She’d glared up at the Russian from beneath the brim of her knit cap. Solo watched as Peril had put an arm around her and tucked her into his side.

“Perhaps, one of these days, Cowboy will teach us how he makes his roast.”

“All in good time, Peril. All in good time.”

He pauses at the steps to his building and looks up at the garland over the doorway. He’d shown them exactly how he made his rib roast that year, heating up his flat to the point they’d had to open all the windows.

He remembers Gaby leaning out over the sill, cheeks flushed with warmth and wine. He remembers Peril in oven mitts, watching her in a way Solo hadn’t been able to resist teasing him for.

He reaches for his pocket watch, eyes scanning over the inscription inside the case before taking in the time. He wants to be anywhere but here, wants to go somewhere to outrun the plague of memories. But he has a trip to pack for, so he takes a deep breath and mounts the steps.

His flat is dark when he pushes inside and his thoughts are still a jumble. He reaches over to turn on the light and the instant he flips the switch, there is shouting and a loud pop. He has his gun in his hand before it’s even a thought in his head, running wholly on instinct, aiming at the room. There are only two people there, both of their faces familiar.

Rashid Hatem is holding his hands up as if he’s being mugged, a broad smile showing through his neatly trimmed, jet black beard. Liz Bennet is laughing as champagne foams down over her fingers and drips onto his persian rug.

His team for the last three years. Solo sighs and puts his gun away, shaking his head.

“I told you he wouldn’t be up for the surprise, Lizzy.”

“Eh,” she says, waving it off.

“I worry for his heart!” Rashid teases, stepping in and setting a hand against Solo’s chest.

The age jokes had started not long after they began working together and only increased when the touch of gray had started at his temples.

Lizzy shakes her head and grabs a champagne flute from his coffee table. “It’s good for him.”

Solo tilts his head to the side. “Maybe not so good for _you_ if I had shot you,” he remarks but then smiles at her.

She hands him the first glass of bubbly and sidles up to him, red lips pulled into a pout. “You’d never shoot little old me.” She bats her eyelashes at him in a ridiculous move that actually works on most marks.

She is quite lovely, pale skin, dark  almond-shaped eyes, so he supposes he understands. She is nearly as tall as he is and her dark hair is pinned back in an old-fashioned style that somehow works on her. Her ears stick out a bit from her head, and, with the little curls around them, it gives her an almost elf-like appearance. Solo chuckles and takes a sip from his glass.

“Hey now,” Rashid objects as Liz pulls back to pour two more glasses. “Wait for the toast!”

Solo turns his attention to the other man. Rashid is distinctly handsome. High cheekbones and a straight, romanesque nose. He’s an inch or two shorter than Solo, with smooth, brown skin that glows with good health.

He looks from one partner to the other. “What is this about exactly?” Neither of them celebrates the current holiday, so he knows that that’s not what’s happening.

Liz’s laugh is a full, sumptuous sound and Rashid’s white smile expands crinkling the corners of his eyes.  

“A little bird told us that _today_ is the day you were officially let off your leash,” Rashid says. “Congratulations.”

“Goodbye CIA!” Liz chimes in. “And good riddance.”

Solo sighs. He hadn’t expected this, but then, he isn’t really that surprised either. “Let me guess... this ‘bird’ was of the British variety?”

Liz grins widely and then holds up her glass. “To being your own man again.”

“To having your balls free!” Rashid adds.

_Your balls are at the end of a very long leash..._

The memory hits him like a slap. The deep voice echoing through his mind, shattering and sinking into his psyche like bits of shrapnel. For a moment he clings to it and wonders, _just for a moment_ , what this night would have been like if they were here.  There’d be music playing right now. Something uptempo and a little too loud. Gaby would be dancing, while Illya tried to convince him that the Russians had actually been the ones to invent champagne. He pushes the thought aside and looks at his team, the ones who are with him _now_ and holds up his glass.

“To the future, whatever it may be.”

 ~

 The lights are bright in Vegas and Solo takes a moment to just... drink it all in. A couple stumbles past, knocking into his shoulder, drunk and laughing. They are leaning into each other for support and he watches them go for a moment before turning back to the front doors of the hotel. The Golden Nugget is bright white on the outside, its name in lights over the entrance. It has the air of an old-time saloon. The interior is done up in rich reds and golds, and, as he walks inside, he is immersed in the sound of ringing slots and the chatter of hundreds of voices.

He makes his way up to the counter to check in and is greeted by a lovely woman on the other side.

“Hello and welcome to the Golden Nugget. Checking in or checking out?”

He takes a moment to read her name tag, then looks up. “Hello, Amelia, I believe I have a reservation,” he says, giving her a soft, charming smile. “Mr. George Reeves.”

She ducks her head to check the reservations but glances back up at him, biting her lip and tucking a lock of strawberry blonde hair behind her ear. He feels a little pulse of victory at her obvious response to him. “Yes, Mr. Reeves, I have you down right here.”

He lets his fingers slide over hers as he takes the key, feels that click of possibility and smiles. “Thank you, Amelia.”

~

Staring out the window of his hotel room, Solo looks out over the city. It’s an impressive sight really, though much starker looking in the light of day. Vegas is probably not the best place for him to spend any amount of time, though he’d walked right past the backgammon tables without a second glance. To a certain extent, he has to wonder what was wrong with him. When was the last time he was tempted?

_“Hey, dance with me, instead.”_

He remembers soft, dark eyes looking up into his with understanding. Remembers the guilt that had washed over him because he should have been the one comforting her, not the other way around. But she’d been the only one who had known, who had understood just how deeply the loss of their partner had affected him.

A soft moan and the sound of shifting sheets comes from behind him and he turns, happy for the distraction. The woman he’d spent the night with pokes her head out from beneath the covers, her pale, red hair a disheveled mess and one of her false eyelashes on her cheek.

“It’s so early, Mr. Reeves,” she says, using his false name on a yawn. He moves to sit beside her on the soft bed.

“The early bird catches the worm, they say.” He leans in and kisses her. When he pulls back, she covers her mouth.

“I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet!”

He raises an eyebrow. “Do I look as though I care, Miss Amelia?” She shakes her head slowly.

“Good,” he replies and yanks the blankets from her, revealing all of her beautiful body to the desert sunlight.

“Now, my dear,” she squeals as he lays a kiss just below her navel and continues downward. “I would like to have my breakfast.”

~

 A magic show. He looks down at the ticket in his hand and shakes his head. He supposes there might be some fun in spotting all the tricks, but it isn’t the show he would have chosen. He wonders again at Waverly’s plan. This show, the exact time, place and performer, were on the itinerary in his head, and, though he does trust the man, it _reeks_ of a mission. It keeps him on alert as he makes his way through the hotel.

A line of showgirls trail past him in all their regalia, a train of glittering, half-naked reindeer, and he sighs. Now _that_ is a show he’d like to see. He watches them shuffling by on their high heels, their antler headdresses covered in blinking lights, their barely-there outfits sparkling. Maybe after the magic show he could fit in a little entertainment of his own choosing.

He might as well indulge if he’s just going to be waiting.

The next item on his mental list is ‘wait for the keys’ and if anything smacks of  a mission, it’s this instruction. He’s never been a fan of the parts where he has to remain passive, waiting for someone else to act. It makes his skin itch a little beneath the perfect cut of his tailored suit.

Fighting the building restlessness, he pulls out his pocket watch to check the time.

~

 

**_April 1965_ **

 

“This is ridiculous,” Solo said flatly, pushing to his feet and walking across the room. He hated waiting, hated sitting on his hands, being useless. He leaned against the stark wall of the hospital waiting room and crossed his arms over his chest.

For once, his partner was still. Perhaps it was exhaustion, perhaps it was some sudden onset of faith, but, whatever it was, he found it deeply unsettling. He glared at Peril where he sat, elbows on his knees, fingers threaded, head bowed.

How could he just sit there like that?

He resisted the urge to push off the wall and start pacing. He did not pace. Pacing is a sign that you are not in control and he was always in control. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

It was a mistake.

Instantly, the image of Gaby’s face filled his mind. The way she’d looked through the windshield of that car. The look of determination in her eyes, the set of her jaw. One minute, he’d been sure he was dead, locked in the sights of their mark with nowhere to go, and then, there she’d been, a valkyrie in a Giulietta Spider.

He remembered the sound of crunching metal, car rolling end over end before sliding into the river. He remembered scrambling down the embankment to get to her, only to have Illya beat him to it, the Russian nearly tearing the car door off its hinges to get to her. Remembered the weight of her limp body being handed to him, her blood-streaked face, the misshapen alignment of her shoulder...

He hated waiting.

With a sharp exhale of breath he pushed off the wall and moved back to his seat. Still not pacing.

He glared at Illya again, baffled by his stillness. Shouldn’t the place be wrecked by now? He felt the itch under his skin. The agitation of helplessness, usually so easy to suppress. He looked to his partner again. Wondered if he was somehow channeling that legendary temper into him instead.

“How are you just _sitting_ there?” Solo demanded, standing again. He ran one hand through his hair and Illya looked up at him, face drawn, jaw a hard, jagged line, his blue eyes hollow. He saw it then, the tension, the carefully restrained energy that thrummed inside the other man. Realized that it was only by keeping himself very still that Illya had kept, _was keeping_ , himself from tearing the place apart.

Solo felt himself calm, not completely, but the edge was gone. He’d never admit it, but the Russian had always been a lightning rod for Solo’s emotions. A grounding force. He didn’t need to show his emotions, reveal the depth of his feelings, because Illya always showed it all. Illya’s earnestness had become part of Solo’s own mask of insincerity.

He took a deep breath, sliding his hands into his pockets. “When do you think they’ll tell us something?” he asked, voice not nearly as steady as he would like.

Peril turned his head to the door of the waiting area, and his fingers slid together, squeezing tight for a moment before releasing. His voice was rough when he spoke, turning back to lock eyes with Solo.

“All in good time.”

~

Entering the auditorium, Solo makes his way down the aisle to his designated spot near the front. He takes his seat, tucking his jacket against his torso to keep the lines clean. When the waitress comes by, he orders a scotch and watches her walk away with an appreciative glance. The lights lower and the show begins with a rush of music as the magician steps out onto the stage. He smiles a little condescendingly before he notices that this magician is actually a woman. _That_ is certainly different. His interest piqued, he gives his full attention to the stage.

She is very good; he can’t deny it. Though he knows how each trick is performed, he can’t seem to catch her at it, not one time. When the warm-up tricks have finished, he claps with the rest of the audience and waits as her assistant, an equally beautiful woman, wheels out the expected box for the disappearing act. He smirks, giving a little shake of his head. A bit predictable, but he finds himself hoping she has a new twist on it.

He is surprised to find out her twist is choosing _him_ to be the one to disappear. He lowers his brow and points at his chest as she singles him out from amongst the very large audience.

“Oh look, he’s uncertain!” the magician says, pulling a laugh from her crowd. “Jenny, go down and fetch the man so he can have his confidence back.”

The assistant exits the stage and appears beside him a moment later. Solo follows her, his mind spinning over the statistical probability of her picking him out of the masses in the room, wondering again if this so-called vacation from Waverly has another purpose entirely.

He moves across the stage to where the magician gestures for him to stand. There is a little blue X of tape, among many other marks. He stands on it and waits. Immediately, he takes note that he is not quite in the spotlight, an error that puts his face partially in shadow, though not enough to overly distract the audience.

“What is your name, sir?”

It is the usual round of questions for the audience participant and he runs through a quick list of suitable responses, answering them as they come.

“You don’t have a hot date after this, do you?” she asks. “I want to make sure, just in case. I mean it rarely happens, but occasionally I can have some trouble bringing someone back from the other side. My last assistant, Molly, is still over there, and such a shame. She was a real looker.”

The audience laughs and Solo smiles at her. She is  not only very pretty, she is also sharp. He can see the intelligence in her eyes and takes note that spending too much time with this woman could really lead him into trouble.

“I have no plans for after the show,” he responds. “ _Yet._ ” He stresses the word, giving her his best, knock-out smile which she returns with a wide, knowing grin of her own. She turns back to the audience and fakes mild distress.

“Oh my,” she waves her hand in front of her face. “You shouldn’t flirt with the magician just before she’s going to make you disappear, Mr. Reeves. You might make her too flustered to do things properly!”

He is ushered into the tall, black box. The door closes behind him and he sighs as he listens to her incantation. The box spins around and he has a distinct dropping feeling, before being offered a hand to step out into a waiting area beneath the stage. He shakes his head as he steps out. He gives the young woman waiting for him a once-over. Another assistant, this one blonde. “Molly, I presume?” She smiles and nods.

“I’m a little disappointed,” he says. “She’s so good I was actually half-expecting the astral plane.”

Molly laughs softly. “Sorry to disappoint, sir. Please, just wait here for a few moments.”

As she moves away and another figure appears out of the shadows. Solo leans back on his heels in surprise. The man smiles — a friendly grin that is very different from Solo’s own — though otherwise, they look strikingly similar.

“Mark, what are you doing here?” he asks the fellow UNCLE employee.

The other man shakes his head. “The usual, I suppose. Though Waverly all but guaranteed I wouldn’t be getting shot at this time. Did he lie?”

“Waverly sent you?” Napoleon frowns. Mark has doubled for Solo any number of times on missions and his appearance adds another layer to his suspicions. The magic show had been odd but not entirely improbable. It could have just been his overly suspicious mind jumping to conclusions. But this? This was definitely different from what anyone would expect from a _vacation_. If Mark is here that likely means that Waverly is trying to move Solo... and wants to make sure no one notices.

What other purpose would he have for that besides a mission?

“And here I thought this was a leisure trip.”

“I don’t know the details,” Mark says. “I just know I’m supposed to take the suit and give you these.” He offers a black motorcycle helmet with a full face mask, sets it on a nearby chair, and then waves a set of keys between them. Solo watches those keys, three of them in varying sizes, as the other man tucks them into the inner pocket of his leather jacket.

“I see.”

Solo starts undressing with a sigh as Mark does the same. He winks at Molly when he catches her looking between the two of them with an attentive gaze and she looks away, biting back a smile, a light flush on her cheeks. Overhead, he can hear the magician speaking again. She’s playing at not being able to retrieve him.

“You don’t suppose he’s found Molly, do you? He did seem the type…”

“We’d better hurry,” Mark says, as though the words are some kind of cue. Solo tosses his slacks at the man and pulls on the dark jeans. When they are both fully dressed, Molly steps forward, sliding a hand into the crook of Mark’s arm and leading him toward the box. He pauses before entering, taking a moment to lock eyes with him.

“Hey, Solo, now that you’re free of your binds, are you going to retire from UNCLE too? Because I came on as a nurse and I’d kind of like to do _that_ job, you know, instead of always standing in for you.”

Solo tips his head to the side but doesn’t answer. “Take care of yourself, Double,” he says, deflecting with a smirk, and Mark shakes his head in response.

He watches as they disappear, waits until he hears the loud cheering of the crowd. When he hears the magician exclaim, “Why, he’s brought back Molly! Mr. Reeves, you are a charmer,” he smiles and gives a little shake of his head. She really is very good.

Lifting the helmet Mark left him, he examines the keys for a moment, finding one that belongs to a 1968 Indian Scout. _Good idea_ , he thinks. It keeps his face hidden as he leaves town while Mark Dufresne gallavants around Vegas in his stead. He sighs, dropping the the keys into his pocket before exiting from beneath the stage and out into the warm desert night.

~

A motorcycle can only take him so far, as once he leaves the desert, the mid-December weather reasserts itself. The list in his head has him turning off the highway in St. George and pulling into the only gas station. The keys in his pocket tell him his next ride is the old Chevy pick-up parked in the back corner of the lot. There’s a stack of warm clothing waiting for him in the passenger seat, various flannels and thick wool socks. For the life of him, he can’t imagine why Waverly would think he’d enjoy a vacation in the wilds of Montana, _especially_ in the dead of winter.

His idea of a vacation is some place tropical. An all-inclusive with sun, waves, and warm, half-naked bodies on a beach all looking to share a good time. That was the vacation he would have chosen. Not that he’s opposed to a nice ski lodge. That atmosphere has its benefits as well, but that’s not what this is. This is a trek to nowhere. Literally. That’s the name of the town he’s heading toward. Nowhere, Montana, USA.

He takes a moment to consider the opportunity he has here. The opportunity to disappear for real. All he has to do is turn right instead of left, so to speak, and even Waverly won’t know where he is. He can’t deny he finds the idea tempting. To be lost, to be no one to anyone for awhile...

He’d say it was impossible to hide from Waverly forever (the man has uncanny sensibilities and an impressive network of information) but it had been accomplished before... Gaby’s face comes to mind and he flexes his jaw a moment.

Alone in an old pick-up, speeding north on the I-15, he lets himself feel the pang of betrayal the thought of her always brings.

 _This won’t be the last time you see me, Solo..._ the familiar, husky alto rings in his head for the thousandth time. A lie she’d told so well. He exhales slowly in an attempt to relieve the tightness in his chest.

~

Utah turns into Idaho, Idaho into Montana, and still he drives. Pushing snow in some places and, in others, looking out the window in awe, despite himself, at the mountains that rise up around him.

Waverly’s directions are vivid in his head, line by line, burned into his mind’s eye. He’s gone over them so many times. Following them, he turns off the highway onto a narrower, country road, heading north, and winds through fields and forests and farms until he sees the sign, rustic and faded, telling him he has arrived at his destination.

Nowhere, Montana. “Population, 1054 happy people and 1 grouch.” It reads and he groans internally at the _smallness_ of it all.

It certainly isn’t much to see. Older brick buildings line both sides of the single main road and each light post is adorned with some bit of Christmas decoration. Colorful lights crisscross over the street, stretching from pole to pole, creating a tunnel of festive display. There’s a berm of snow down the center of the wide street and piles of it in other places. A veritable winter wonderland. He groans as he heads toward the illuminated _Motel_ sign at the very end — burning neon against the night sky. He parks the truck in the snow-covered parking lot and heads inside, preparing himself for some backwoods hospitality. He’s pleasantly surprised by the well-groomed man behind the counter who smiles up at him from behind a tome of _War and Peace_.

“Good evening. Welcome to Nowhere,” the older man says with a twinkle in his eye that says he’s still not tired of the joke. “I assume you didn’t  come in here for some chit chat, so how many nights will you be staying?”

Solo thinks for a moment. Is it possible he has another clue waiting here? That there’s more to this little adventure than this dead town? “You know, I’m not quite sure. Let’s start with tonight and see how tomorrow goes.”

“A man on an adventure. I like it.” The attendant hands over a key and Solo thanks him, tucking it into his pocket before leaving to find his room.

 

~

 

There’s one thing remaining on his mental list and it is the strangest of all. He considers the instruction as he dresses for the day, donning the red, plaid flannel over a white t-shirt. There’s a pair of worn jeans included in just his size, wool socks and warm, heavy boots. The last item is a fleece-lined, flannel coat and a fur lined cap. He looks at himself in the mirror and sighs, dropping his chin and looking at his offending reflection.

“Good God. I look like a lumberjack.”

He begins in the cafe next door for breakfast. The woman behind the counter is a decade out of fashion with her tall beehive of red hair, but she is friendly enough, peeking out from behind a copy of _Crime and Punishment_ to be sure his coffee stays filled to the brim. When he’s finished eating, he dawdles over the morning paper, feigning interest in the scores of the local, combined school sports team and the citizens’ call for better Christmas displays next year.

One line, in opposition of increased spending on decor, stands out to him. _“I do not think our resources are well spent on more of this ‘frippery.’ Instead we should use our funds to help those who are less fortunate during this season.”_ \- Daniel Miller.

A small smile plays over his lips, the line reminding him of his old friend. They’d had a very similar conversation their second Christmas together, when the Soviet had relaxed a little and accepted that not _everything_ about western Christmas was commercialized. In fact, he’d so embraced the notion of love and joy to all that he’d insisted on the three of them volunteering in relief kitchens and every other sort of charity during the season. His gifts had always been small, humble but well-chosen, and accompanied by a donation in their name to some charity or other. The charities had been selected with equal care: Solo’s supporting the arts or veteran’s programs, Gaby’s providing instruction for troubled youth or patroning young girls from poorer families who wanted to dance.

Solo reaches for the pocket watch he has been carrying for six years. A gift from a Christmas he remembers with equal levels of fondness and grief. He flips it open and reads the engraving. Even though he knows the inscribed words by heart, he can’t help but read them everytime.

_All in good time._

Effectively, Illya’s last words to him.

He couldn’t remember which of them had said it first, but it had become a saying they threw at each other at any given opportunity. Back and forth, push and pull, it became a hallmark for their relationship. At first it had been in mockery, a smart-assed send off, a platitude meant to irk more than calm, but later, it had become something else altogether. Something genuine. A reminder.

Now, it is only an admonishment that, in reality, there is never enough time at all.

With this in mind, he checks the faithful, little hands and decides that now is as good a time as any to complete his mission.  

_Take a walk down Main Street and be sure to look in all the windows._

He shakes his head at the oddity and pushes to his feet, thanking the waitress and leaving a generous tip for her on the counter.

~

There’s a hardware store with a set of drills on display. A pet store with wiggling, brown puppies frollicking in the window. He spends a little extra time in front of the department store where an assortment of jewelry has been set out to draw in the husbands and boyfriends who still need to buy gifts for their ladies. There’s a bakery with buttery rolls, and cupcakes frosted up like reindeer and snowmen.

The last window on the corner reveals a group of children, mostly little girls, turning in circles. Some are in little pink leotards, a few in simple shorts or soft skirts. They have their hands over their heads, pudgy, youthful faces fixed in concentration, and he stops to watch, hearing the faint sound of their music through the glass.

Then a woman steps into view, right in front of him. The window ledge blocks her from the shoulders down, but he can see the curve of her neck, the line of her shoulders and he knows them as surely as he knows the backs of his own hands.

He has fastened a hundred necklaces around that neck, worked to pile that dark, brown hair upon her head for just the right look. He’s slid earrings into those shapely earlobes when her own hands were too shaky to accomplish the task. She turns her head a little and he knows that face. Knows the corner of that jaw, the set of that chin. Knows the little, squarish tip of her upturned nose.

He inhales sharply, stunned, as everything comes together. This is his mission? His vacation? To find Gaby Teller hiding out in the middle of nowhere, teaching ballet? And why all the secrecy? Why the nonsense? Why didn’t she just _call_ him? Certainly they had phones here in this God-forsaken place.

His heart is pounding, blood rushing in his ears as his mind splinters off into several different directions. The night he’d realized she wasn’t coming back, all the times since then that he’d cursed her and worried for her in turns. The strings he’d pulled, the favors he’d called in trying to find her and here she was. In fucking _Montana_.

She moves forward, away from the window, to help one of the little girls get her stance right and he’s met with another shock altogether — because though she still moves with all the grace and agility that he remembers, the black leotard that she wears does nothing to hide the swell of her pregnant belly.

His mouth is hanging open when she turns and spots him through the window. Her eyes widen a moment and then she is smiling. She makes her way to the window, putting her hand on the glass and he does the same, as if she’s pulled him by a string. She holds up a finger. _One moment_ , it tells him and then her gaze shifts to something behind him and her countenance changes, both softening and taking on an edge that he is unable to read.

He turns sharply, spy instincts kicking in, and finds himself staring directly into a face he cannot be seeing. The rapid beating of his heart seems to stop altogether as his blood freezes in his veins. Utter astonishment washes over him.

What other reaction should one have upon seeing a dead man?

“Hello, Cowboy,” a deep, familiar voice says. It’s deeper than he remembers and the accent is almost entirely gone, but it’s the same damn voice.

The sound of bells ringing over the ballet studio door is the only warning he has of Gaby’s arrival.

“It worked!”

The woman who throws herself at him is warm, solid and smells just like Gaby but even with that affirmation, he can’t take his eyes off the man. Tall as ever, same blue eyes, same straight nose, same serious brow. His mouth is hidden behind a thick but well-groomed beard and yet, Solo can sense the familiar, reserved half-grin pulling at its edges.

Gaby pulls away from Solo and looks him over, her hands sliding down his arms to grip his gloved fingers. “You look like a lumberjack,” she says, smiling widely before moving to slide an arm around that other man, the man who can only be Illya Kuryakin, his old partner, his friend, his _brother_... alive and well beyond all reason. She settles into his side and Solo looks from one to the other and then back again. He shakes his head as if the action will somehow reveal the truth to him, but they are really standing there - both of them looking back at him like he’s a ticking bomb.

“What. The. Hell.”

The man before him breaks into a full smile.

“All in good time, Cowboy. All in good time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you believe this entire story was inspired by the idea of Illya chopping wood in the forest without his shirt on? *laughs* gallyavanting on tumblr sent me that thought and this fic was born. Thank yous to her for encouraging me in those beginning moments when it was taking shape in my head and afterward when I was hoping it was something readable. A million thank yous to diadema for proofreading (a million times) and helping me beat this into shape. Thank you to everyone who has left a comment or a kudos, I love you all. Be blessed and Merry Christmas.


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